


The Doorknob

by knlalla



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ghost!Phil, M/M, Mutual Pining, Phanfiction, Pining, Slight blood mention, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, but it's like a nosebleed, going crazy, happy ending i swear, smut only in the epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-09 10:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knlalla/pseuds/knlalla
Summary: Dan moves to a London flat, after dropping out of Uni. Some strange things start happening (Dan POV)**Edit: Rating changed to Explicit for the final chapter - if smut makes you uncomfortable, that's the ONLY chapter with explicit smut.This is purely a work of fiction, I do not own Dan and Phil.





	1. The Flat

I slam the door behind me, but groan in frustration when it catches and shuts slowly; it sounds more like a muffled _whump_ than the satisfying slam I was going for. I click the deadbolt shut and slide down, back against the door; my duffel bag drops to the floor beside me. 

Despite the fact that I’m now living in my own flat, I’ve taken a year off just like I wanted to, and my parents aren’t nearly as pissed as I expected them to be, I can’t help but feel stressed and flustered. I’m no longer careening down the wrong path, but I certainly have no idea where I’m actually going.

I let my head fall against the door, focusing on the pressure on the back of my skull, when I hear a thump from the kitchen. _Amazing, I’ve been here for less than a_ minute _and someone’s already broken in_.

I stand, leaving my bag but deciding to grab my keys to function as some sort of weapon. My first footstep causes the warped wood flooring of the lounge to creak loudly, and I curse myself for making a noise - until I realize it literally doesn’t matter how lightly I step. It seems that every inch of the floor groans under my shoes, and I give up the attempt at secrecy after the third creak. The intruder probably heard me come through the door, anyway.

I make my way through the small lounge toward the... _empty_ kitchen? Nobody’s standing there, but a partial wall and counter block my view of the lower half of the space. “Hello…?” I say hesitantly. _Maybe the thump was just a figment of my overactive imagination, a product of my stress. Maybe I have noisy neighbors. Maybe the old building was just making noises of its own accord_. I creep toward the half-wall separating the kitchen and lounge, ready to attack. _As if I’ve ever been any use in a fight in my entire life,_ the voice in my head laughs bitterly. I prepare to attack anyway, adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream as I round the corner of the counter to find...

Nothing. There’s absolutely _nothing_. My heartbeat slows slightly, and I lower my outstretched hand, loosening my death-grip on the keys. I chuckle at myself. “Wow, if this is the first five minutes in this flat, I’m in for quite a rough year.” My voice, low though it is, fills the empty space; I can breathe again.

I make my way back across the lounge, pausing at the door to double-check the lock - I _know_ I’d clicked it shut, but I can’t help my nerves - before kicking off my shoes, grabbing my small duffel bag, and making my way to the sparse bedroom. A queen-sized bed and junky wardrobe are the only items in the space, the bare mattress calling my name despite its lack of sheets and duvet.

My brain feels numb, now, the adrenaline draining out of my system and leaving me exhausted - emotionally, mentally, physically. It’s barely 8pm, but I can’t be bothered to care about anything at the moment. I drop the duffel bag, pulling out a thin blanket and fitted sheet. I manage to at least get the fitted sheet on the mattress properly before collapsing into the bed fully clothed. I figure I’ll be warm enough - it’s barely autumn, so I’m sure I’ll be fine without the blanket.

\----------------------------------------------------

I wake up in the middle of the night - I assume, it’s dark - groggy and just a bit chilly. My long-sleeved shirt is too thin, and my jeans don’t quite trap my body heat. Despite that, I just don’t feel motivated enough to get up and grab the blanket I’d left discarded on the floor, so I curl myself into a ball on the mattress and try to fall back asleep - it happens far faster than I expect, I usually spend hours trying to calm my mind enough for some fitful rest, but the stress of the day pulls me under.

\--------------------------------------------------

I wake to an uncomfortably bright light shining through my window, and I forget where I am for a moment. When my memories from the previous day catch up with me, my heart jumps in my chest - _is that the sun shining in? Do I have a view from this window?_ I don’t remember being particularly thrilled about this flat, aside from the manageable price, but maybe I’ve missed something. I throw the blanket from my shoulders and make my way to the window - _no, not a view_ , I sigh. Just a reflection of the sun off the windows of the building across the street. The real view is a grubby street and a couple unremarkable buildings, as expected.

 _Wait,_ I backtrack a few moments, before I’d allowed my excitement to catapult me from the bed. _Was the blanket on me last night? I thought I decided not to get up and get it...maybe I changed my mind and just don’t recall..._ I elect not to go too far down that path, my brain still not prepared to think that hard.

Instead, I shuffle over to my duffel bag, grabbing a travel toiletry kit I’d brought to tide me over while I wait for the boxes my parents had shipped from my house to arrive. I didn’t have enough to warrant a moving truck, but I had too much to bring with me, and my parents had agreed to ship my larger items for me. So I’ll be making it work with just a few items of clothing, a few toiletries, and no pillow for the next couple days.

Stripping out of my wrinkled clothes and tossing them into a lump of black in the corner, I make my way into the adjoining bathroom and turn on the shower. At least the water works well, and heats up fairly quickly. I try not to take too long, though. I haven’t found a job yet, and only enough money saved up for a couple months’ rent and utilities. 

As I shampoo my hair, I reflect on _just how damn lucky_ I’d gotten with this place. It’s not in the best location, but it’s surprisingly cheap (for London, anyway) and it sure as hell beats staying with my parents. I love them, really, but I am _not_ about to sit and listen to them remind me daily to _get out there and get a job_ or pester me about _when on earth I’ll go back to school_. I need space, and this place is about as close to perfect as I could’ve asked for.

\----------------------------------------------------

I open the door to release the steam into the rest of the flat, grimacing as my reflection in the mirror clears up. I look _exhausted,_ purplish bags sticking out rather obviously on my light skin. Sighing, I opt to forego the usual hair-drying and straightening routine in favor of getting some coffee. I can do it later, if I feel like it.

Towel around my waist, I head back through my room to the duffel bag. I reach in, grabbing fresh pants, black jeans, and a dark gray jumper, then return to the bathroom to change and at least make my wet hair somewhat presentable. I recall seeing a coffee shop around the corner from my apartment building, so I should be able to get away with a quick trip and make it back to the flat without my hair going curly. 

Once I’m satisfied that I’m close enough to presentable, I grab my phone - _shit, only 23% left_ \- and curse myself for being too exhausted to remember to plug it in last night. Sighing, I pocket the phone, vowing to charge it later. _And my wallet..._ I think for a moment, mind refusing to function without caffeine, before I recall I’d had it in my pocket last night.

I turn toward the lump of clothes in the corner of the room and am surprised to see quite a bit of the white Muse logo is now showing - I guess I didn’t realize the way I’d thrown it, so it was almost laid out flat across my jeans.I shake my head, tossing the shirt aside and digging through the pocket of yesterday’s jeans. When my fingers close around the black leather, I pull it out and check the cash I have on hand. Not much, but it should be enough.

I grab my keys from the hook by the door, undo the deadbolt, and step into the hall. The place is surprisingly quiet, and I can’t tell if I should be relieved or stressed by this fact. I lock up, jiggling the doorknob, just to check that it’s fully locked, then make my way down the hall to the stairs that will lead me down to the street.

I swear, as I walk away, I hear the doorknob jiggle again, though I’m nowhere near it; I brush it off as another “old building” or “I’m too tired” sort of thing and trudge my tired ass down the stairs. _I really need that coffee._


	2. The Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan being his awkward self, "on brand" music choices, and lots of yelling. Enjoi.

As the door of the apartment building closes behind me, I decide to turn left. _I think the coffee place was this way, though it’s not like my brain has been up to par this morning._ Turning the corner, I almost run into a metal fence surrounding a cafe-style patio full of tables, chairs, and umbrellas. I stop abruptly, catching my hand on the rough black metal to avoid smacking into it. _Guess I found the coffee shop,_ I muse, circling around the extended pavement to the open front door.

I stare into the shop as I pass the floor-to-ceiling glass, pleasantly surprised by the homey atmosphere inside. I then notice a few customers are seated out on the patio, so I quickly drop my gaze to the concrete. I’m soon enveloped by the warm brown and orange of the painted walls and the autumnal smells of pumpkin spice and caramel inside the shop. 

_I’m a basic bitch, I won’t deny it,_ I smile to myself. 

As I stand in line with the other late-morning patrons, I find myself lost in thought. _I need to start looking for a job, or I won’t be able to afford even the cheap place I have. I have almost no marketable skills, though, and nobody will want to hire a uni dropout. And I’ve not had the best luck in work experience, either. Plus, I should apply to jobs that will help me achieve my career goals. Fuck, I need to decide what those even_ are _, I have no idea what I want to do with my life._

“Hello, sir, what can I get for you today?” I hear a young woman’s voice, maybe close to my age, and I realize I’ve not moved - I’m still about five feet from the counter, and my cheeks flush as I take a few large strides forward. Hell, it’s going to be quite a day, with only my laptop to distract me and nothing but problems running circles in my mind. 

“Uh, yeah, hi, I’ll have the…” I stare at the menu, lost for a moment, before my eyes find the caramel macchiato on their list. “A large caramel macchiato, please,” I say with slightly more confidence. “Oh! And my name’s Dan,” I add, feeling a bit awkward as she types my name and order, and my eyes wander the counter. _Do I want a banana, as well? I’m not all that hungry, a granola bar, perhaps?_ I continue to scan, then pause as my eyes catch on a tiny placard behind the bowl of fruit. 

_Now Hiring - request an application from your barista_

The woman is staring at me now, and I realize she’s finished ringing me up. I read the total off the display as I fish for my wallet, though I’m sure she’s already told me how much I owe, and hand over a couple bills. 

“Can I also get an application?” I blurt out, before I let myself think too much on it. The woman gives me a look - I guess I’d kind of _shouted_ \- as she hands me my change and receipt. She then reaches down under the register and pulls out a double-sided piece of paper, sliding it across the countertop toward me. 

“Your order will be ready in just a minute,” she continues, and I take the words as a dismissal. I decide to wait in the corner of the shop and walk over, application in hand. I give the form a once-over. _Well, I won’t be getting rich working here, but at least I’ll have some sort of income_. I jump when my name is called - _had I been zoning out again?_ \- before I grab the to-go cup and head back toward my flat. It only takes a minute to arrive at the front door, but I’ve already scanned over the requisite information for the application and made note of which answers I’ll need to bullshit to sound more “cooperative” and “team-oriented”.

\-----------------------------------------------

“ _Give an example of a time you had to work with a very frustrated customer - how did you resolve his/her problem while maintaining a professional demeanor and promoting a positive view of the establishment?_ ” I read the prompt aloud in a high-pitched voice before shoving a slice of pizza in my mouth. I think I’m doing a great impression of an overly chipper interviewer. “ _Usually, when dealing with frustrated customers, I run away and let someone else deal with it!_ ” I answer myself, aloud, in the most obnoxious tone I can come up with; my bitter laugh drowns out the Radiohead playing from my laptop for a moment. 

I scribble down some generic situation and how the “ideal candidate” would’ve responded as I chew another bite of the pizza, then move on to the next question. I read it aloud, in the awful interviewer voice. This one’s about _working as a team!_

“ _I’m a great team player, I do an excellent job of ignoring everyone and sitting around in a corner all day!_ ” I joke, mock answering again. I hear a laugh, this time, and it takes me a moment to realize it wasn’t my own, and not in my head, either - _it wasn’t in my head, right?_ I’m honestly so used to being alone, the blurring of lines between what’s in my head and the what’s in the real world wouldn’t shock me.

After a momentary debate, I opt to investigate it - _sure as hell beats sitting here with the uncomfortable wooden floor digging into my ass_ , I reason. I toss the slice I was eating back into the cardboard box and climb to my feet, shaking feeling back into my legs out as I walk over to pause the music on my laptop. I stand still, waiting as the eerie silence fills the space around me.

When I fail to hear anything, I walk slowly back through the lounge toward the entrance, pausing occasionally to listen for anything unusual. After a minute of this, my brain decides to fill the emptiness, giving me shit for being freaked out by a creaky old building. By the time I arrive in the bedroom, I’ve come to the conclusion that the voice in my head is right and I’m being silly. Then I hear the muffled resuming of Radiohead coming from my laptop.

My laptop. Which is back on the kitchen counter. Which I am nowhere near, yet has somehow turned back on. I check my pockets - _maybe my phone has accidentally turned it back on?_ Nope, empty pockets, phone in the lounge as well. Fantastic.

Despite the rational majority of my mind insisting that it was just a glitch, a sticky key or something, my heart rate picks up speed. I move past the front door, taking a moment to double-check the deadbolt. Still in place.

As I return to the lounge, I’m almost disappointed by the lack of...well, _anything_. No random person, who’d snuck in through the fire escape and decided to check out my taste in music, greets me - _yes,_ the voice in my head chimes in, _because that’s the most logical theory I could come up with, isn’t it?_ I make my way through the empty lounge to the laptop, pausing the music again. 

Silence returns to the apartment, so I resolve to make a final sweep of the flat before getting back to the application. I move more quickly this time, listening but hardly expecting anything. When I’m back in my bedroom, the music resumes, startling me. 

I sprint back to the kitchen, determined to catch the source of this annoyance, to once again find an empty room. The flat is still mostly quiet, the music doesn’t seem to fill the space. I march indignantly over to the laptop, closing the software entirely this time, then return to my bedroom.

At first, I’m excited - I’ve been standing here for a few seconds and-

“FUCKING HELL!” I shout, running back to the _still_ -empty lounge, checking behind the counter in the kitchen just to be sure. Absolutely _nothing_. I turn to my laptop, finding the software opened up again, playing the same song. _I will not be driven crazy by a_ laptop _!_ I yell into my head, and it comes out in the form of a frustrated groan. I decide the best course of action is to shut the entire damned thing down.

When I’ve triple-checked that it’s _off_ , clacking a few keys for good measure, I back slowly out of the lounge. I stare intently at the possessed computer until I round the corner by the front door and can no longer see it. Facing backwards, I notice the door and deadbolt, still locked. I huff angrily and turn to enter the bedroom. Plunking down on the mattress, I wait patiently. Surely, _surely_ , whatever is happening can’t happen with the laptop _turned off_. 

A few moments pass, then a few more, and I’m becoming hopeful. I take a deep breath in, ready to breathe a sigh of relief, and ex-

“... _whatever makes you happy, whatever you want..._ ”

“ _AAAGGHH_!” My pleasant exhale turns into an infuriated scream, and I shoot up from my bed and into the lounge again. “ _HOW. HOW IS THERE NOTHING THERE. HOW DID MY LAPTOP GET TURNED BACK ON. WHAT THE EVER-LOVING-”_ I keep ranting aloud, but a quieter voice, buried somewhere deep in the back of my mind, goes the supernatural route: _this place is fucking haunted_.

I am _not_ superstitious, in any way, shape, or form, but I’ve seen more than my fair share of horror films. Weird, unexplainable shit happening in a new place? That is a _classic_ haunting. I think back to some of the other...odd things that I’d been discounting since last night. Strange sounds, things not being where I’d left them... _shit. I am not superstitious, I am_ not _superstitious, I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t live in a haunted flat._ I start racking my brain for rational justifications for each of the noticeably weird events.

And I can’t come up with a _single_ explanation for any of them.


	3. The Board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan hits up a specialty shop in the hopes of finding a way to deal with whatever's going on at his flat.

I cannot _believe_ I’m standing here.

Deciding to forego sleep last night, I’d spent most of the evening looking up any possible explanations for...I didn’t even want to think it, but _paranormal_ activity. I mostly got hoax articles and sites promising to exorcise troubled spirits from the building, but I wasn’t that desperate, and I still didn’t _really, truly_ believe that I was dealing with something supernatural. 

(I left the music on, though, just in case.)

After hours of browsing to no avail, I’d come to the conclusion that, if this were a haunting from a regular old horror movie, I needed to treat it like one. So I changed my search tactics and managed to find an occult specialty shop nearby - well, sort of nearby. It was about a 25 minute walk, and I’d originally wanted to get a cab, but the air was brisk and cool this morning.

I’d also filled out my application - complete with over-the-top bullshit lines that painted me as an excellent potential employee - and dropped it off at the coffee shop on my way. While there, I’d purchased another caramel macchiato and a muffin to-go, and used them to fuel my lethargic brain as I made my way to the strange store. I had the general direction in mind, but passed the _extremely creepy alleyway_ that housed the entrance four times before I finally got out my phone to pull it up on the map.

And here I am now, standing in front of a black entrance that, honestly, puts my wardrobe to shame. I suppose I should go in, _it can’t possibly be worse than waiting in the alley to get mugged._

I push through the dark velvet curtains hanging from the open doorway and pause for a moment to let my eyes to adjust to the lack of lighting. Even the alley, shielded from almost any sunlight, is brighter than this shop. I haven’t moved from the entrance, head on a swivel just trying to take in the myriad of oddities surrounding me, when my eyes land on an animal skull not ten centimetres from my nose.

“Oh sh-” I start, backing into a low table next to the entrance, and I spin to catch anything that might be falling. Fortunately, it’s just a basket with a bunch of business cards tossed in, and I cautiously step away and further into the shop. I hear a tinkling of beads, and look toward the counter as an older woman exits from a back room. 

“Anything I can help you with, dearie?” I’m almost startled by the voice, which sounds more like a kindly old grandmother serving tea than a woman who’d be working in an occult shop, but I suppose I’m not in any position to judge. I glance around, hoping I’ll just spot what I’m looking for, but to no avail - my eyes are drawn from one grotesque or intriguing object to the next, and I can’t focus on anything.

“Uhh...yes?” I notice my voice has lilted up at the end, and I decide the best way to confront this is to be more decisive. “Yes, yes I am,” I continue, feigning a confidence and comfort that my surroundings did not instill in me. “I need a Ouija board. I don’t suppose you have any?” I try to keep the question casual, in the hopes of avoiding an interrogation, but I’m not let off easy.

“Ah, a Ouija board? And what might a fine young man like you be needing such a thing for?” She leans on the counter, and I feel compelled to walk toward her. When I’m standing across the glass-topped display case - not just a counter, I realize - she reaches below and her small hand returns with a rather unassuming box. It could house a board game. _But isn’t that what a Ouija board is, just a board game? It’s not real,_ I tell myself, eyeing the box.

The woman doesn’t hand it over, though I’d rather just pay and be done, but keeps her grip on the box and locks her eyes on me expectantly. At this point, my social awkwardness kicks in, and I recall she’d just asked me a question - _how do I even answer this? That I think my flat’s haunted, and I just want to know for sure? How weird-_ I stop the train of thought at that word. Weird. _It’s not like she’s never heard anything_ weird _before_. My own sarcasm is enough to prompt my reply.

“I’ve, uh, just moved into my flat, and things...I can’t explain them, but _things_ are happening,” I begin, a bit unsure, and then something else occurs to me, “and! The landlord was far too happy to give me the place at a really cheap rate, so I just sort of...thought…” I trail off uncomfortably and stare down at the corner of the display case - it’s edged with brass and suddenly _very_ interesting.

“I see. And you think it might be haunted, is that it?” The woman asks this in such a nonchalant tone that I don’t feel _quite_ so strange when I nod. “Well, dearie, best be careful. Often times, one might get _far_ more than bargained for when dealing with such matters.” I choose not to respond to that, aside from another nod to confirm I’d be cautious - _this junk probably doesn’t even work_ \- and the woman types some numbers into the ancient cash register.

“Well, dearie, if that’ll be all, then your total comes to seventeen pounds even.” _Really, spending money you don’t have on some superstitious nonsense that you_ know _won’t work? What a waste!_ But, hello social anxiety, I’m already rung up and the woman’s hand is already extended. I pull out my wallet, then hand over the money, and she files it neatly away into the cash drawer. 

She then slides the black box into a plastic bag while the receipt prints, ripping it off and adding it to the bag before lifting it over the glass top of the display case. As I take the handles, she holds them tightly until I look up at her.

“Good luck to you, dearie,” she intones, releasing the bag, and I can’t get out of the shop quickly enough. 

\------------------------------------------

My return trip is hurried, though I do duck into a little shop along the way that sells scented candles. I purchase a few, figuring it can’t hurt to light them when I use the Ouija board. Plus, if - _when_ \- it doesn’t work, I’ll still enjoy the candles. 

I finally arrive back at the door to my apartment and recall the other day - _was that just yesterday?_ \- when I’d jiggled the doorknob and it had jiggled back. I shift my keys to the hand holding the bag, then twist the knob a few times. I wait for a second, holding my breath, and then another, and another, and... _you’re a twat,_ I think at the ghost, or myself, or both - I can’t decide.

I give up, not wanting anyone to catch me standing in the hall staring at my doorknob, and unlock it. I push inside, let the door close gently behind me, and just stare into the empty space for a minute. Should only be one more day until I have...well, not furniture, but at least _some_ stuff. I hang the keys on the hook and lock the deadbolt before moving to the kitchen to set my bag on the counter.

I take the candles out first, then the matches I’d had the foresight to buy while at the candle shop. One of the candles is shamelessly pumpkin-spice scented, another smells like apple cider - two autumn classics. The third is something called “Autumn Nights”, which makes no sense, but it smells great and was on sale, so I’d gone for it. 

Then I remove the black box containing the Ouija board. I pull the lid off and toss it to the end of the counter, revealing an underwhelmingly basic board. A part of me feels like I need to act reverently toward the thing, but the cynic in me wins out, and I scoff. “The lady couldn’t have at least sold me something a little more...interesting?” I ponder aloud, fishing out the small triangular object that would act as the “guide” when I “invoked the spirit”. I can’t even keep the air-quotes out of my head, the thought of this whole mess is so absurd.

I notice a small black card with gold filigree around the edges and pick it up. It’s got a few lines of text on it, which I assume to be instructions. 

_To communicate with a spirit in the household, place the board in the centre of an open space._

_Place the planchette on the G at the centre of the board._

_Place two fingers of each hand lightly on the edges of the planchette._

_Request to speak with the spirit in question, and await a tug on the planchette._

_Allow the planchette to move toward the spirit’s desired response by keeping your touch light._

I flip the card over - nothing but the brand on that side - and flip it back to reread the instructions. _Well, that’s rather...nonspecific_. _I guess I’ll have to draw on my horror movie knowledge to fill in the blanks._

I glance out the window - it’s rather light out, and I feel odd trying to invoke any supernatural entities - _did I seriously just utter that sentence, even in my head? Absurd_ \- when the sun’s up. I glance over to the fridge that came with the place, which is still very empty, and decide to order some Chinese food to be delivered in a few hours. Looking back to the fridge, I also order some necessities from Tesco - I really can’t afford to live off takeout. 

Orders placed, I bring the laptop into my room, craving a more comfortable spot for my butt to spend a few hours until the sun goes down and the Chinese is delivered. I settle into the slight creak of the springs and busy myself trying to find out anything unusual about my flat or the building. 

For an apartment in the middle of London, I’m a bit surprised to find very little in the way of history - the building itself went up in the late 1800s, and had been renovated a few times since. No gruesome deaths, no serial killers stuffing bodies into the walls, no tragic fires.

I try searching the flat number in conjunction with the building, and still no deaths. A few notes about some of the renovations and additions, though it seems my flat was one of the older ones. It also used to have a fireplace - _how’d I miss out on that?_ \- but it had been bricked up several years back, when a few more floors had been added to the building.

I sigh, setting aside the laptop. _How is there absolutely nothing weird about this place?_ I feel myself leaning away from the supernatural explanation - _facts are facts, after all, and science says there’s no such thing as ghosts, and all this research on the history of the building has turned up absolutely nothing…_

I lay back on the expanse of the mattress; it groans underneath the shifting pressure, and I close my eyes. I can’t wait for my stuff to arrive tomorrow - clearly, I’m just clinging to this haunted house theory as a form of entertainment, and it’s absolutely absurd. I tap into the logical side of my brain, trying again to explain all the strange occurrences of the past two days in a rational manner.


	4. The Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan uses the Ouija board to try to summon whatever spirit may or may not be haunting the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If ya were waiting for Phil, wait no longer.

My eyes shoot open to an incessant buzzing. _Oh, the Chinese food!_ I notice the growl in my stomach at the thought, and leap up from the bed to get the door. I hadn’t really slept; in fact, my brain was on overdrive trying to come up with logical explanations for this whole situation, so I’m now fighting a bit of a headache. My limbs, however, are rather groggy, and I struggle with getting my wallet from my pocket while unlocking the door with the opposite hand. The kid standing at the threshold extends a hand with a plastic bag, the sweet aroma wafting toward me - I’m far hungrier than I expected. I grab a few bills - _I’m running quite low on those_ \- and trade him for the bag. He nods and turns away, so I close the door and click the lock into place.

With the delicious stir-fry calling my name, I head toward the kitchen. Shit - I should’ve double-checked for cutlery before the delivery boy left; I don’t have any, and I really do _not_ feel like making a trip out to get some. I sigh, pulling the box from the bag. I’m pleased to see a plastic pack of silverware at the bottom, and it joins my stir-fry on the counter. 

As I unbox the stir-fry, I notice the lack of light shining through the window - the sun’s already set, so I wolf the food down, ready to get the haunting nonsense over with. I figure if I can… _ugh_...”prove” that there aren’t any spirits by using the Ouija board, I’ll be over this supernatural thing by the time I get my stuff tomorrow. 

I toss the empty box and used silverware back into the bag, deciding it’ll be my temporary trash can, and grab the Ouija board and planchette. 

The lounge seems as good a place as any, since it’s completely empty, so I set the board in the middle and drop the planchette onto it. Returning to the counter, I grab the candles and matches, then spin back to the lounge. Balancing the candles on one arm, matches in the opposite hand, I lower myself to sit cross-legged on the squeaking floorboards.

I make a triangle around the board, figuring that’s spiritual and whatnot, by placing a candle each above the top right and left corners of the board and setting the final candle directly in front of me. I notice, now, that the lights in my apartment are still on. I stand with a groan and walk across the lounge to turn them off.

Resuming my position by the middle candle, I strike up a match. I watch it burn for a second before holding it to the first candle, and the wick catches barely a moment before the flame reaches my fingers. “Shitshitshitshit,” I cuss under my breath, waving my hand wildly to try to cool off my burning fingers. “This whole fucking thing, it’s a nightmare,” I mumble when the pain has dulled to a slight throb. 

I strike the next one right by the wick of the second candle and put the match out before it can burn my hand. I try the same method with the third, and am pleasantly surprised by my success. At least I managed to spare my poor fingers. 

I take a moment to look around the room, in case some kind of entity has formed during the lighting of the candles, but I only find shadows flickering across the walls. Nothing solid, or even translucent. _Breathe in, breathe out, in, out, and move on_ , I tell myself as the eerie lighting and even eerier silence descend upon me in full force.

Pushing past the hesitation, I place my fingers _lightly_ on the planchette and move it to the G on the board. _I suppose this is it, then_ \- “If, uh...if there are any ghosts, er, sorry, _spirits_ , please make your presence known?” I finish with an attempted exclamation, but it ends up coming out more as a question.

I look around, disappointed when nothing shows, then down at the board. Under my fingers, the planchette hasn’t moved. I lift the pressure slightly, fingertips barely resting on the edges of the object, but still no movement. I almost trash the whole thing right then, feeling like a right idiot for believing all this supernatural bullshit, but swallow my logic for one more minute and give it _one_ more try. I shut my eyes this time, hoping that’ll help.

“Alright you twat,” I start, decidedly _so done_ with this nonsense, “you’ve been freaking me the _fuck_ out and I am sick of it, so could you just _show yourself_ so I know I’m not insane??” I hear my voice approaching a shout toward the end, but frankly, I can’t be bothered. My fingers itch as I wait for something to tug on the planchette, _or tug on my hair or, frankly, do_ anything _to tell me this wasn’t a complete waste-_

“Well if you’d wanted to see me, you should’ve just asked.” A voice interrupts my angry inner monologue, and I scream as my eyes fly open.

“HOLYSHITWHATTHEFU-” 

The scream catches in my throat, jaw half hung open, as I take in the form before me. It’s a man, maybe a few years my senior, and he is _beautiful_. Like, I know I’m into guys, but if I weren’t, this one would have turned me. And he’s not even the “you shouldn’t exist” kind of beautiful, more like the most amazing combination of adorable, dorky, and sexy I think I’ve ever seen.

I don’t even bother fixing my jaw as I take this all in, my eyes wandering from the mismatched socks to the dark skinny jeans, then up to the red plaid button-down and, finally, to meet the bright blue eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses and framed by a black fringe that I could only aspire to match with my naturally curly hair.

“Better close your mouth, a moth might find its way in,” the man goes on, then laughs at his own joke. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth and I have the strangest urge to poke it. _Maybe with my own tongue._

_You just sexualized a ghost, y’know,_ my brain chimes in, finally functioning. I shake my head, shutting my mouth and blinking a few times. I realize my hands are still resting on the planchette, so I sit back and pull them into my lap as my lips struggle to utter, well, anything.

“How did you get- who are- where did you- _what…_?” I finish, lamely. Wow, I was making a right fool of myself in front of the adorable...ghost. The ghost who literally is a _supernatural being, Dan, stop fantasizing._

“Well, you asked for me to show up - and here I am!” he flashes a smile and flings his arms out dramatically, and I’m left speechless again; barring the sheer _impossibility_ of the situation, I never excelled at talking to cute people, or people in general, but _especially_ not people who just, well, _appeared in my lounge_.

“I, uh, I guess...but why are you _here_?” I gesture nonspecifically at the apartment around me. Best to stick to the basic questions, probably. “And _why have you been messing with me?_ ” I tack the question on as an afterthought, arms crossing over my chest and voice rising as I latch onto any feeling other than nervousness.

“May I?” he points at the floor across from me, between the two candles, and I nod, then reach a still-shaking hand up to fix my fringe - a nervous habit I’d yet to get rid of. _At least I took time to straighten it this morning._ He sits cross-legged, matching me, and looks back up. “I’ve been here a few years. I’m the clumsiest person _ever_ , I actually tripped and hit my head on that fireplace they’ve since bricked up,” he points to the wall where, I now notice, the fireplace used to be, “and I can’t remember a thing after that, but I guess I sort of woke up here, like _this,_ ” he gestures to his body, “and can’t really seem to leave.” He sounds oddly chipper about the whole situation, and if my mind wasn’t already reeling, I’d be more shocked at his positive demeanor.

“Okay, that sucks and all, but _why are you bugging me?_ ” I repeat the question with a little more anger, “I have way too much shit going on in my head as is, I really don’t need something else driving me crazy,” my tough-guy tone drops off at the possible double entendre, and I hope the dark room and the flickering of the candles hide the flush I feel creeping up my cheeks.

“I didn’t realize it was annoying you!” His eyebrows lift impossibly high, forehead wrinkling, and his blue eyes catch mine. If he’s faking sincerity, he’s very good at it. “I stopped after the music, I didn’t realize you’d get so upset, but I was enjoying it. It’s been ages since anyone played music in here.” He looks away, a bit wistfully, and my heart sinks.

“I didn’t - I’m sorry, I just assumed…” I start, voice quiet, but he looks back fervently, his face the picture of seriousness.

“No, no, I’m the one who should be sorry! You thought you were going _insane_ because of me!” I chuckle at his reference to the words I’d used to “invoke” him, and his face softens a little, a small laugh escaping his lips to accompany my own. “Really, though,” he sobers again, blue eyes holding mine intently, “I’ll stop, you don’t have to worry about me anymore.” His last words come out quietly and he looks at the floor, black hair falling to block his eyes - _I want to comfort him, to hold him in my arms and_ \- _Dan. Dan. He’s a ghost, you_ can’t _hold him, you can’t even_ touch _him, don’t get attached._

“I mean,” I hesitate, gaze dropping to the space between us as I take a breath, “really, I don’t mind it, now that I know where it’s coming from,” I look up and smile at him, and am rewarded with the most amazing grin. I want more of it. “I live alone, so you’re welcome to hang around - I’m not, uh, sure how the whole,” I wave my hand toward him, hoping to convey my point, “thing works, but I guess, as long as I can _see_ you, I’m fine with it,” I widen my smile a bit, and I’m surprised to find my words are genuine.

“You mean it?” The man meets my gaze, and I swear he sounds like a kid for a moment, then I’m shocked as he tackles me in a hug. “You’re the first person to ever see me and say that!” I fall back, a hand dropping behind me to prevent us crashing into the wood floor . His lips are right next to my neck, arms wrapped around my shoulders, and I instinctively reach my free arm around his back. 

Of all the shocking discoveries I’ve made this evening, the one that hits the hardest is that I can _feel_ him, this man who’s a ghost. I don’t know how or why, but he could be a regular - albeit chilly - person, and I wouldn’t know the difference.

“Oh, uhm…” he pulls himself off me, hand rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment as he resumes his cross-legged position opposite me. “I’m sorry, I got so excited, I haven’t really had a friend since before…” he gestures to his forehead, and I notice a purplish mark - not quite a scar, not quite a cut, perhaps something in between.

I laugh, a real laugh, and push myself back up. “It’s fine, I just moved here, which, uh, I guess you already know, but I haven’t got many friends either. None, really.” I amend, and I look down as I realize how lame I must sound. When I voice that opinion of myself aloud, the man objects.

“You’re not lame! I mean, you like Muse _and_ Radiohead, and you’re talking to a _spirit,_ which I think qualifies you as _pretty darn cool_.” I laugh at his positive take on the odd situation, then stop as I fully comprehend what he’d said.

“Wait, wait, so _you_ were the one that flipped my shirt yesterday morning, when I was showering?” I inquire, recalling the pile of clothes that had looked…just slightly _off_. The man freezes, then, mouth twisting in a frown as if I might be mad; to his credit, though, he still answers honestly.

“Yeah...when you first opened the door last night, I almost didn’t hear you, and then you must’ve heard _me,_ when I wasmessing around in the kitchen, and I didn’t want to freak you out so I stayed out of sight. But I saw a glimpse of your shirt and just wanted to know for sure, cause I _love_ Muse, and then you were playing Radiohead and I just got so excited, I’m sorry!” he rambles, and I can’t help but smile. At least I’m not the only one getting flustered.

“Really, it’s fine,” I laugh, and I’m once again rewarded with that bright smile - though he covers it with his hand. Then a thought occurs to me, and blood rushes to my face. “You didn’t, uh…” I look down, unsure how to phrase it, “while I was, uhm, showering, you didn’t…” I stare intently at the hem of my shirt, absolutely transfixed.

Fortunately, he catches on quickly, jumping in to answer. “No, oh my gosh, no, I would _never_ invade someone’s privacy. I mean, not like _that_. I mean, not that you’re _not_ attractive, but I would _never_ do that, I..uh…” he trails off, and I realize I’ve looked up to watch him. I find I’m enjoying the alternating emphases as he tells the story, and am now mesmerized by his face. _Did he just call me attractive?_ “You’re staring, did I say something wrong?”

“You said I was attractive,” I mumble, still a bit awestruck. Nobody’d _ever_ said I was attractive before, not to my face. _And probably not behind my back, if I’m being honest_.

“Well, if we’re being technical, I believe I said you _weren’t unattractive_ ,” he jokes, putting the words in air quotes, but it’s half-hearted and I can’t take my eyes off him, absolutely transfixed. “Uhm,” he clears his throat, looking down again, and his fringe breaks our eye contact. “I’m actually bisexual. I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but if it does, my offer to leave you alone still stands,” he says sadly, like he’s expecting rejection. Head bowed, he looks up to meet my eyes through the strands of black hair and I can see the sincerity. If it made me uncomfortable, he’d leave, no questions asked.

I startle from my intense staring session, then wave my hands to emphasize. “No, no, it’s not that, it’s just-” _nobody’s ever found me attractive before,_ I want to say it, but I know how pathetic it sounds, _and I’ve done a stellar job so far of sounding absolutely pitiful_. Instead, I latch onto the other part of his statement. “I’m actually, uh, bi as well. So it definitely doesn’t make me uncomfortable, don’t worry!” I try to adjust my tone and project some enthusiasm, burying the fluttering in my chest. _He thinks I’m attractive - er,_ “not unattractive”, _but still..._

“Oh! Well, that’s good to know.” I watch the tension fall from his shoulders, replaced with the easygoing positivity he had earlier. “Thanks for telling me, I feel a bit better now,” he laughs into the last few words of the sentence, and I join in - it’s an infectious laugh, but it tapers off after a moment, and we’re left in silence, which devolves quickly into the encompassing, awkward kind.

I want to study his features, but I’m afraid I’ll get caught, so I drop my eyes and search the floor for something to talk about. I don’t want him to disappear, but there are a million questions running through my brain and I can’t seem to catch one to spit out my mouth and end the silence.

“So, your name’s Daniel, right?” I look up as he starts speaking, and my stupid chest flutters again when he says my name.

“I, uh, prefer Dan, but...how’d you know that?” I’m confused now, I haven’t said my name aloud in the apartment - not that I can recall, anyway.

“Your application for that coffee shop! Hilarious, by the way,” he commends me, “the teamwork question, especially.” I remember the horrendous amount of bullshitting that went into that particular answer and we both dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

“Oh!” I nearly shout, the realization clicking into place in my head, “that laughter, that was you! That’s why I turned off the music to begin with.” I think back to when I’d sworn I heard a laugh and wanted to check it out.

“Right, sorry about that, it was just so funny listening to you doing all those funny voices! I was trying not to laugh out loud, but sometimes it just slips out, y’know?” He giggles, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth. Again, I’m tempted to meet it with my own, and I know I’m staring - but I can’t be bothered to stop. The silence grows around us before I realize it.

I try not to let my imagination run wild, for fear that the man will point out my pink cheeks - he seems to have no problem with privacy - when I actually smack myself in the forehead; it registers that I’ve forgotten to ask the obvious question. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours!” I say, my exclamation ending unexpectedly with a yawn.

He smiles sympathetically - _do ghosts get tired?_ \- before answering. “My name’s Phil. But you should get some sleep now. We can talk more tomorrow, yeah?” It’s phrased rhetorically, but he genuinely sounds a bit unsure, like I might change my mind.

“Definitely,” I say, smiling brighter than I’ve done in quite some time. I lean forward, blowing out the candles, then stand in the semi-darkness. The ghost - _Phil_ \- does the same, and I wonder if he’ll just dissolve into thin air the same way he appeared, but he walks over to the kitchen instead. I can feel the questions buzzing and spinning in my overwhelmed brain, but push them away in favor of attempting to get some sleep.


	5. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan's got an interview with the coffee shop, but returns to find his flat empty. Did he completely imagine Phil?

“What the…” I mumble, a loud ringing interrupting my semi-pleasant sleep. It takes a moment before I realize it’s my phone, and I lean over the edge of the bed to pick it up off the floor. I don’t recognize the number, so I almost hit the ignore button, when I recall the application I’d dropped off at the coffee shop yesterday.

I clear my throat, trying to eliminate the sleep from my voice, before answering. “Hello, this is Daniel,” I opt for my full name, just in case, then sit up, the blanket sliding down to my lap.

“ _Yes, good morning, Daniel. This is Dave, the manager over at the Corner Shoppe,_ ” the gruff man’s voice answers from the other end, “ _I know this is rather late notice, but one of my employees just called in sick, so we’ll be short-staffed for this afternoon’s shift. Would you be able to come in for a working interview at two?_ ”

I barely hesitate, “Yeah, yes, sure, I can be there!” After some pleasantries, the man hangs up, and I drop my phone to the floor, flopping down in relief. _Maybe now I’ll be able to afford to live here_ and _eat food!_ I huff a laugh as I stare at the ceiling, not quite ready to get up. _Did I actually_ sleep _?_ It’s unlike me to sleep for more than a couple hours, and they’re usually full of stress-induced nightmares. _And for...how long?_ When I realize I have no clue what time it actually is, I roll over and lean back down to grab my phone again.

“SHITSHITSHITSHIT!” I scramble to kick the blanket away, nearly falling off the bed in my rush to get up - it’s a quarter to two, and I’m barely awake. I run to the bathroom and slam the door shut, stripping out of my pants and hopping into a still-chilly stream of water.

After history’s fastest shower, I’m dressed but wet-haired - _twice in three days, ugh_ \- and standing in the entryway, grabbing my wallet and keys before unbolting the door.

“Where are you off to, you’ll catch a cold with your hair wet like that!” I hear the voice, accompanied by an adorable laugh, and my heart races - _only half from excitement,_ I scold myself, _mostly from surprise._ I turn to see Phil, looking just the same as last night, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Oh! Uh, hello again!” I reply, cursing my lame greeting - _why am I so awkward? I should’ve said something clever, like...uh…_. At this point, I realize I’ve been staring at him, so I rush to answer his question. “I got a call to go down to that coffee shop for an interview. I guess they’re short-staffed so I’m going to help out and hopefully do a good enough job that they want to hire me,” I finish, then change my mind. “I need to be there in,” I check my phone, “three minutes, but do you want to maybe, uh, hang out or something? Like, when I get back?” I curse my strange wording again.

Phil’s face lights up, though, and it’s worth a trillion awkward monologues to see it. “Yeah, sounds great! Have a blast,” he tacks on, and I can’t help but smile back as I open the door. I repeat the routine of locking it up and jiggling the handle; _just want to be sure it’s locked,_ I tell myself, but I’m secretly pleased when I hear it jiggle from halfway down the hall.

\---------------------------------------------------------

At half six, I’m back at the front door, fitting my key into the lock. A plastic bag containing a sandwich and some crisps dangles from my other hand, along with a newly acquired apron. Dave had been rather impressed by how quickly I’d picked up the drink-making after only an hour of helping the other employees, so he’d pulled me into a training session once things had calmed down. Afterwards, I was sent home with the new apron, a sandwich for my efforts, and a promise that I’d see my schedule for next week within a few days.

I push the door open, and it swings shut behind me. The slam is loud in the empty space, and I turn around to click the lock shut. “Phil, I’m back!” I shout. I’d imagined, on my brief journey back from the coffee shop, that I’d walk in and Phil would greet me from the kitchen. Perhaps we’d chat for awhile - I had quite a few questions for him. 

Silence, though, is the only thing greeting me. “Phil?” I try again, aiming to match my earlier enthusiasm, but definitely lacking the earlier confidence. Despite my attempts, my thoughts go right for the gut - _he’s probably bored of me, it’s not like I’ve ever been adept at keeping friends._ I shake my head to chase away the thought, choosing to focus instead on the empty flat.

“Oh, I see how it is,” I say, letting a bit of irritation leak into my voice as I go to set the bag and apron on the counter next to my laptop. “You’re mad because I left as soon as I got up, and now you’re waiting to scare the shit out of me, is that it?” I give an eye-roll to the emptiness, then pull the sandwich out of the bag. I haven’t eaten much today, aside from a sugary drink I’d botched earlier at the coffee shop, and I’m starving. 

Tossing the crisps aside, I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. Gooey cheese melts into my mouth, and - deciding that Phil must be watching, waiting for the right moment to appear and jumpscare me - I make an effort to ignore him. “This is _soooooo_ good,” I speak around the mouthful of food, trying to annoy him into appearing, but the room stays silent.

“Fine, your loss!” I say, after swallowing the giant bite. I work my way through the sandwich, glancing over my shoulder every few minutes to make sure he hasn’t appeared, before I give up entirely. “You don’t have to be a dick, y’know,” I mumble, dropping the ends of the sandwich onto the parchment paper and crumpling it up. I toss it back into the bag at the edge of the counter, leaving the crisps for later, and bring my laptop into my bedroom - _I really need to get something, aside from my bed, to sit on..._

As I scroll through my tumblr feed, I try not to check the clock every two minutes and fail miserably. _What if..._ the thought sneaks into my head, unbidden, and I want to push it away - _maybe I_ am _going crazy, maybe I imagined everything last night, and this morning…_

I stop scrolling, stop caring, as my brain takes that idea and runs with it, ferreting out every possible explanation that points toward my insanity, and I can’t be bothered to fight it, or even make an effort. _If I’m not crazy,_ I reason, _why would Phil have left me alone?_

As the minutes tick away into an hour, I feel as though I’m watching my downward spiral from the outside. I can see, through the expressions on my face, as I sift through each memory, erasing Phil, because _surely_ he wasn’t even there. If he were, he’d appear now just to laugh at how silly I’m being. I can feel the frown, the crease in my forehead, the slump of my shoulders, all becoming more pronounced.

As with _everything_ lately - or so it seems - I’m pulled from my thoughts by a loud noise. As I get up to answer the knock at my door, my mind shifts gears and I wonder who could possibly be visiting me. _Did my parents surprise me with a visit?_ The idea barely manifests before I dismiss it - they live pretty far, and were too busy to even help me move in. _Not bloody likely_.

I check my phone, just after eight at night, and the pieces slot together in my head - right, I’d ordered some groceries to be delivered tonight. _Wait -_ more pieces fall into place, and I check the date on my phone as I make my way to the door. The boxes were supposed to have been delivered by noon today, weren’t they? _Great, one more problem to add to the pile,_ I can’t even begin to be overwhelmed by this, though, as I unlock the door and take the plastic bags.

I make quick work of putting the food away in the now slightly-less-sparse pantry and fridge, then stare for a few seconds, pondering my current level of hunger. _Not enough to bother making something,_ and my lack of motivation agrees, so I shut the fridge and grab the bag of crisps from the counter, returning to the only semi-comfortable surface in the flat.


	6. The Boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's back!

Two sleepless nights and two uneventful days pass before my boxes finally arrive. Though I try to distract myself with tumblr, Netflix, and even a few games, I manage to spend the majority of my time lost in a dizzying sea of theories about Phil. I laid in bed those two nights, brain careening back and forth between listing every reason he couldn’t possibly exist and listing every part of his body I wanted to touch. I won’t lie, I’m in deep. _Except that he isn’t real,_ the voice in my head chimes in, even now. _He’s just a figment of your imagination, quit drooling over him._

After signing for the three large boxes, I drag them one at a time across the threshold and into the entry. I scowl at the Ouija board and candles, still sitting on the floor at the center of the lounge, before picking them up to return to the box, which I’ve pushed to the corner of the countertop. _I may as well try to get my money back, if I ever get the motivation to go to that store again._

As I turn to the kitchen, I’m shocked to see the _figment of my imagination_ standing in front of me - rather, just behind the counter, elbows resting on it and fists supporting his chin.

“Need some help unpacking?” He’s got a goofy grin on, as if glad he could startle me. My emotions battle internally for a minute, bouncing between frustration and desire, before frustration wins out and I replace my look of shock with a frown.

“Where have you been?” I mean for it to come out annoyed, but it ends up sounding more desperate than anything. _I guess the desire side won out, didn’t it?_ “It’s been, like, three days. I started to think I really had made you up. Hell, I could be talking to my fridge right now, for all I know!” Now anger has found its way into my voice, and I allow it to take the reins. 

His face changes immediately, grin replaced by an open mouth and pleading eyes as he lifts his chin from his hands. “I-” he starts, but I don’t let him finish, setting down the board and planchette on the counter and waving a hand dismissively in his direction. I’m suddenly just _exhausted_ , his presence has utterly sapped me. After hours spent inside my head, trying to scrub him from every corner of my mind, he’s back again to make everything even harder.

“Look,” I mutter, collapsing into a seated position against the wall opposite the kitchen. “This is just...too much. Sometimes you’re here, and sometimes you’re not, what am I supposed to think?” I pull my knees up and rest my face in my hands, elbows on my thighs. “I can’t do this, I just can’t…” I mumble into my hands.

Without warning, I feel a hand on my arm, _actually feel_ the hand, and I turn slightly to see Phil’s pale skin and long fingers. I keep turning my head and am rewarded for my effort by those gorgeous blue eyes and a small smile.

“Can I explain?” He asks softly, voice barely above a whisper, and I’m struck by the thought that he’s still giving me a choice - I can say no, send him away, and he’ll leave if I ask. But I don’t, I just nod. I’m desperate for any explanation that doesn’t include my own downward spiral into insanity.

“I can’t always...appear.” He begins. I look up to see he’s settled cross-legged in front of me, and I’m reminded of the night I met him. “Sometimes, I have no problem being fully…” he struggles for a moment, as if searching for the word, “corporeal? I don’t know the right word, but when I can hold stuff and touch things. But sometimes, sometimes I can barely even register that I’m here. It’s like,” again, he’s searching for words, looking around the room this time, as if the walls hold the answers. “Well, I’m not sure where I am, but it’s kinda all blurry and white, and I can barely see this place or hear it. And sometimes I’m stuck between, like, I can become visible, but I can’t touch anything, or I can hold something for a second, but the next, it’s on the floor.” He chuckles at himself, as if remembering the last time that happened, then meets my eyes.

My eyes, which, I now realize, haven’t left his face this entire time. “Uh,” I drop my gaze to the floor between us, trying to think of something to say. “So, you’ve been...gone the past few days?” I try, and he nods his confirmation.

“Honestly, I couldn’t see anything here for a while.” His eyes shift around the flat, as if trying to recall what it looked like when he could barely see it. “Even when I could, things were a bit foggy. I heard you, though! Just a little, but I heard you say my name.” His eyes go soft as they rest on me, and I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. And damn if the lights weren’t plenty bright for Phil to see it, this time. I’d said his name the first night, sure, but I had _definitely_ said it - _quite a bit louder_ \- on those nights when I couldn’t fall asleep, couldn’t get him off my mind.

He smiles a little wider, then shifts to stand up. His footsteps don’t make the floor creak, like mine do, and I focus on that fact to distract me from my burning face and thoughts. _He’s a ghost, quit this nonsense,_ I scold myself, placing my hands on my cheeks in an attempt to cool them down.

“You didn’t have to call me names, y’know,” Phil laughs, standing in the kitchen now. And there go my efforts to calm my flushed cheeks, heating even more as I remember the rather crass names I’d taken to shouting at the flat when he was away. At least he doesn’t indicate that he heard the other things I’d said, the ones that came less from anger and more from lust. “Now, did you want some help unpacking? I’m feeling pretty solid today, so I should be good to lend a hand.” He smiles and catches my eyes, and it’s a force of will power to bury the images I’d let run through my mind in his absence.

“Yeah, that’d be great - and sorry, by the way,” I tack on, feeling bad about assuming...well, that he didn’t exist. Though a tiny thought still squirms at the back of my brain, burrowing down and reminding me that _maybe, just maybe, he’s not real_. I try to shut it up by standing, and it sort of works - that is, I stand so quickly that I get a bit lightheaded and have to lean against the wall for support.

“You alright?” I realize I’m holding my head in one hand and preventing myself from falling into the wall with the other. Phil’s focused his attention on me, so I nod.

“I just stood up too fast,” I rush to say, to smooth the look of concern on his face, “drawbacks of being so tall.” I add, forcing a smile to my lips. But it works, and Phil goes off on his own tangent about how uncomfortable he used to get on airplanes with so little leg room.

I take a moment, still leaning on the wall, to let the dizziness clear, then join him in the kitchen. _I must not have eaten enough today,_ I decide, and hip-check Phil out of the way of the fridge.

“Hey! Rude,” he laughs at me, and I give an exaggerated shrug over the top of the fridge door before diving in to find something appealing. “Whatcha lookin’ for?” His voice sounds closer, and I turn my head to see him peering over the edge of the door. His fingers are curled over the top as well, and it’s so adorable, I can’t help but laugh. “What?” He looks confused, and I step back from the fridge. He straightens up, and I close the door, before turning to stare at him. 

Now he’s crossed his arms, trying to pout and act annoyed, but it’s really just making him look more…

“You’re just so adorable,” I laugh, my heart picking up pace as I realize I’ve said it out loud, but he smiles and turns away. I think, if he could, he’d be blushing, and it gives me a bit more confidence. “I mean, you looked like a little lost puppy just then!” I continue, and then he’s laughing as well, until we both slowly taper off and the silence creeps back in. 

As an avid hater of awkward silences, or silences of any kind, I abandon the attempt at food - _I’m not even that hungry, if I’m being honest_ \- and return to the lounge, ripping at the tape on one of the boxes. “You said you could help?” I prod, and he joins me. We quickly fall into a comfortable rhythm; I hand him something and tell him where to put it, and before long, we’re completely finished. 

“Still no furniture, huh?” Phil asks, taking in the empty space - aside from the TV, I really hadn’t brought any large items. 

“Uhm, yeah,” I follow his gaze through the flat, “I guess I’ll have to save up for a couch or some chairs or something…” I trail off, realizing just how sad the place must look. I bet it was fully furnished when he lived here, and I’m sure everyone else who’s inhabited the place since at least had a _couch_. 

Feeling inadequate and thoroughly drained, I tell Phil I’m going to bed and drag the duvet and pillows with me. At least I’ll have a more comfortable night’s sleep tonight.


	7. The Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan can't sleep...without Phil (get ya heads outta the gutter and read the chapter title)

Or, at least, sleep was the goal. After laying awake for what feels like hours but could’ve been five minutes, I give up on sleep entirely. I have far too many questions racing around my head, and the moment I’d hit the pillow, they got all jumbled up and started demanding to be answered.

“Phil?” I call, hesitantly, into the darkness around me - not completely dark, though, with the ambient street light permeating the uncovered window. I’m about to say it louder when I see a figure appear beside the bed.

“I was wondering how long you’d toss around before you gave up,” with the dim light, I can’t see it, but I can sure as hell _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

“ _Were you watching me sleep!?_ ” I whisper-shout, afraid of complaints from adjoining apartments. I can feel my cheeks heating up again - _has he been able to see me in bed before? Cause even when it was foggy, he may have still seen..._ I stop that train of thought before it can fully evolve, focusing on my indignation at Phil’s intrusion of privacy.

“Well, technically, I was watching you _not_ sleep,” I can hear the taunting tone, and I flip over into my pillow, sticking up my middle finger in his direction. “Well, what did you call me in here for?” he prompts, ignoring my excellent attempt at a comeback.

“Nevermind, just go away,” I mumble into the pillow.

“Come on, what’d you want?” His voice gets higher, teasing me, and suddenly I feel fingers poking into my side.

“Ah! Hey, hey, stop it!” I shout, forgetting the volume control as I try to swipe his hands away. But it tickles and I’m laughing and then he’s laughing and I don’t _really_ want him to stop. Hell, I want him to do a lot more than that- _nope, nope, abort_ , I try desperately to clear my mind at the twitch in my pants. Now is _not_ the time for that problem, not with the object of those fantasies less than a foot away.

 _Not to mention, he’s a_ ghost _, you idiot!_ I groan, but the thought doesn’t help my growing issue, so I try to roll away from his hands. Which turns out to be the absolute _worst_ thing I could’ve done, as Phil decides to flop across the bed to keep poking me. And his face ends up two inches from mine.

I freeze, torn between wanting to pull away and wanting to close the gap - _he’s so close, I could just..._ and then _he’s_ the one who pulls away, and I try not to let it sting (it does anyway). 

“Uhm...sorry about that,” I look up to see him lying opposite me on the bed now, propped up on an elbow and focused on the edge of the duvet. “I got a bit carried away, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable…” and again, I can hear the sadness in his voice. “I’ll, uh, talk to you tomorrow?” And he’s shifting to stand up.

 _But I don’t want you to leave,_ I shout into my head. Or, I thought it stayed in my head, but my hand is on his arm and he isn’t moving, and I realize I’ve said it aloud as well. “Please, uhm, please stay. I would appreciate the company, I, uh, don’t really sleep well,” I try to make my original outburst sound a little less desperate, though my hand doesn’t leave his arm.

“Oh, I’m _well_ aware,” Phil says, and I hear the smirk as he flops back down. Once again, I am immensely grateful for the darkness of the room and the space he’s left between us - _did he just imply he’s seen me, at night, thinking about him, and…_ “So, what’s on your mind?” Phil interrupts my train of thought, and I might spontaneously combust at the idea of answering that question honestly.

“I, uh...just, y’know, uh, you?” I stumble through the answer, trying not to lie completely, before I realize I’ve not made the situation any less awkward for myself. “You! As in, how you got here, what it’s like for you...I have, like, a million questions!” I rush to amend my original answer, hoping he can’t see the deep red I can feel on my face.

“Ah, okay, getting serious then!” He jokes, sitting up and setting the pillow on his lap. I move to match his position, fumbling to keep the duvet and pillow covering my own lap. “Well, go on then, ask away!” He prompts, and I rack my brain to pick a question, _any question_ , that would distract me from my current _situation_.

“Uh...well, I guess I know _how_ you died,” I wave a hand limply toward his forehead and he nods in response. “So that answers how you got here. You’re sorta stuck here, right, and you can basically let me see or not see you at will - whenever you’re here, anyway.” I tick the items off on my fingers, trying to come up with any other standard questions a person might ask a ghost. “Well, besides appearing and scaring the crap out of me, can you do any other tricks?” I wonder, the moment after I’ve said it, if it’s an offensive question, but Phil’s face brightens into a smile as he _fades right in front of me_.

“Yeah, pretty cool, right?” I hear his voice from the other side of the room, though it’s hard to make out anything other than his silhouette. “And! Watch this,” he crosses the room, toward the bathroom, and I stare as his form walks right through the wall. A moment later, his head reappears, and just enough light catches his blue eyes that they pop out from under the black fringe. “Spooky, right?” His fingers wiggle through the wall, and I can’t help but laugh at the odd spectacle.

The next moment, he’s on the bed again - _is he closer than before?_ I don’t dare hope, but my breath catches anyway. This time, he’s sat up on the bed with his back resting against the headboard, hands behind his head and legs extended, crossed at the ankle. He looks so smug, I have to lean over and smack him in the chest.

“Hey! That hurt!” Phil brings his hands around to block his face and chest, and feigns a look of pain and betrayal. I almost feel bad until I realize he probably can’t feel _anything_ , let alone pain. I laugh again, trying to catch him off guard - the moment he lowers his hands, I reach out, just to poke him this time, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me into his chest.

“Hah! Can’t hurt me now, can you?” He laughs, and my ear is right up against his chest, and I can feel the vibrations from his laugh. I freeze, honestly content to stay in his arms for an indefinite amount of time, and his laugh dies away. There are a few moments of silence, as if Phil’s just now noticing where I am, that he’s holding me here, before he lets go. 

I lean back, albeit reluctantly, as he clears his throat. When no muttered apology follows, I look up to see him fumbling with the edge of the duvet, eyes focused intently on the nonexistent task.

“Phil,” I start, but he’s fully concentrated on ignoring me. “Phil,” I try again, softer. Still no response. I shift under the covers to sit next to him at the headboard, almost touching, and pull my knees up to my chest. “Really, it’s alright, I didn’t mind,” I say quietly. Though his eyes are haven’t lifted to meet mine, I can tell he’s focused on my words because he stops fiddling with the duvet. “Will you tell me more about yourself?” I prompt.

“What do you want to know?” He asks; though he still seems a bit nervous, I’m glad I’ve pulled him away from his concerns. 

“Everything,” I say, simply and honestly. “What was Phil like, before?” I try, and once again I’m struck with the thought such a question might be offensive. Before I can address it, though, he’s looking at me, smiling that amazing smile. 

We talk for hours about everything - or, really, Phil tells me story after story from before he died: hilarious tales about his childhood, about his family and friends, his likes and dislikes scattered in amongst the anecdotes. Every so often, he’ll come up with a question for me, but my answers are brief - I just don’t find myself as interesting as he is. He must sense my reluctance, because the questions dwindle; soon, he’s told three or four stories without requiring anything from me. I prefer just listening, anyway. His voice is so soothing, and he doesn’t seem to mind. 

As he continues, I close my eyes. _I’m just absorbing the information_ , I tell myself, _and resting my eyes_. But after a few minutes, I can’t be bothered to stop resting them - I’m still listening, I love building this mental picture of who he was, who he _is_ , even now, but I can feel myself drifting. In an effort to wake myself up, I shift a little, and end up settling against Phil. As in, everything - from our shoulders to our ankles - is now touching. 

And I am _definitely_ more awake - my heart’s racing; half of me wants to open my eyes, see what Phil’s reaction is, and the other half is terrified. _If you don’t open your eyes, he can’t have a bad reaction_ , my exhausted brain reasons. But Phil doesn’t even pause, still going on about the time he was attacked by a squirrel, and I allow myself to relax a bit. Well, as much as I can, with the entire right side of my body on fire - it’s remarkable how warm I am, suddenly, from sitting next to someone with no body heat.

As he continues, my heart calms down just a little, and his voice - I’ve lost what, exactly, he’s talking about - is humming around inside my skull pleasantly. Before I’m aware of it’s happened, my head is resting on his shoulder. 

Then his words stop, and his arm shifts beneath me. My eyes fly open, and I’m about to lean away, sure I’ve screwed it up, when I feel a weight settle across my back and shoulder - his arm is around me, pulling me closer. 

“Tired, are you?” He asks, and I swear his voice has gotten softer, though he was already speaking quietly. I feel his thumb rubbing small circles on my arm, and my eyes flutter back closed at the gentle touch. “Do you want me to go, now? I can let you sleep.” He says the words, but makes no motion to let me go, and I don’t want him to.

“Will you stay while I sleep?” I mumble. To my ears, it’s incoherent, but he must’ve understood, because I can feel his hand squeeze my arm slightly before returning to the small circles.

“Of course,” he confirms, and I can hear the smile in his voice. Too tired to open my eyes and stare at the smile myself, I picture his face in my head - clear blue eyes behind the adorable black frames, pitch black fringe falling across his forehead, and his kind smile. I hold that image as long as I can before I fade into a dreamless sleep.


	8. The White Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, ghosts can get scared too.

I wake up with a crick in my neck, having fallen onto the pillow that replaced Phil sometime during the night. Sitting up, I blink against the brightness of the light pouring through the window and try to rub away a lingering headache. It must be at least midday by now, and I barely have time to think about where Phil’s gone when he pops his head through the open door, looking far too lively for someone who’s meant to be dead.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” He jokes, and I groan, burying my face back into the pillow. He’s unfazed by my reluctance, suddenly beside me and pulling my arm to get me up. “You’ve got work in half an hour, come on!” I groan again, sitting up and letting my head catch up with the new movement.

“Alright, alright,” I mutter, tossing off the disheveled duvet and swinging my legs over the edge. My head fights me for a moment before I feel comfortable standing. Despite that, I’m surprised to find that I feel sort of rested - unusual, for me. Phil nods, apparently satisfied now that I’m vertical, and leaves me to get ready. I grumble through a quick shower, knowing I won’t have the time to straighten my hair, but I’m not about to show up smelly for my first official day of work.

As I comb my hands through my hair in an attempt at looking presentable, towel still wrapped around my waist, the events of last night tumble back into my head. _I was laying on Phil’s shoulder, he put his arm around me, I asked him to stay with me, I_ fell asleep _like that!_ My brain is suddenly shouting, each memory replacing the previous in a quick succession that makes me drop my hands to the sink, gripping it tightly. _What if he didn’t want to stay and just pitied me? What if I made things weird? What if he isn’t real?_

The last one gets me, a punch to the gut, and my grip on the sink tightens for a moment before I run from the bathroom, steam escaping behind me, and into the kitchen. My heart's racing, but Phil’s just stood there, facing the fridge like he might have tried to get something from it. He turns as I pause, creaky footsteps giving me away.

“Well…” his voice is lower than usual, and I watch his eyes as they rake across me. Suddenly I am _far_ too aware of my current attire - or lack thereof - and I grip the towel at my waist as my entire body floods with heat. “I certainly hope you’re not headed to work like that,” he smirks, and I can’t move. I curse myself, silently, for being so desperate for him to exist that I’ve gone and put myself in this situation, because how do I say _I want you so badly, I keep worrying you’re not real, I can’t stop thinking about you, I had to check, I had to be sure you weren’t all in my head, I had to be sure I didn’t make you up._

“I, uh...no, no, definitely not,” I try to laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a cough, and I decide to cut my losses - spinning on a heel, I remove myself quickly from his sight and lock myself back in the bathroom. My hands find their way to the edge of the sink again, and I take a deep breath of the still-warm air around me. _Okay, that’s fine, it’s fine, just move on, if you act like it didn’t happen, Phil probably won’t even remember it._ I let that thought fill my head and reach over to grab the clean shirt from the floor where I’d tossed it before my shower.

“What, I don’t at least get a show before you cover it all up?”

“PHIL!” I scream, the arms holding my shirt above my head dropping to cover my bare chest. I notice at that _exact_ moment just how loose the towel is around my waist, and leave my shirt dangling in one hand as the other reaches to hold the towel up. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?!” I can’t keep the panic out of my voice, but Phil’s just laughing - maniacally, I swear.

“I was enjoying the view, and you ran away!” He protests, laughter behind every word. My embarrassment is replaced by anger, and I hold onto it, reaching out to push him away, ready to demand he leave me alone and let me get ready. And my hand falls through the air, never meeting its intended target; instead, I stumble toward the shower, trying to regain my balance. “Oh no, Dan, I’m sorry!” Phil’s still giggling, but he does seem apologetic this time. “I haven’t been able to touch anything all morning, I should’ve said so!”

Fortunately, I haven’t made enough of a fool of myself to fall over entirely, but my hands have released both the shirt and my towel in my attempt to steady myself. I reach back to grab the towel - which had descended about an inch but I _refuse_ to let drop any farther - before responding. “Phil,” I start, my face burning, “You _have_ to let me finish getting ready! I have less than ten minutes to get to work, now.” I hope my annoyance is covering the embarrassment that I can feel pricking under my skin.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” I watch his blue eyes and smirk disappear and wait for a few heartbeats, just to be sure he’s gone. Though I can’t help but try to keep things covered as much as possible - _he’d better not be spying on me, or I swear…_ I finish dressing, then return to the entrance, grabbing my phone and wallet along the way. As I reach for the doorknob, I hear Phil from the kitchen, reminding me to grab my apron, and I run back to grab it from the wardrobe before leaving.

As I’m locking up, I’m tempted to jiggle the doorknob again, but I recall what Phil said this morning about not being able to touch anything since last night. I jiggle it anyway, at least he’ll know I’m thinking about him. _Dan, you sound like a lovesick teenager…_

It doesn’t stop my smile when I hear the faintest jiggle from down the hall.

\-----------------------------------------------------

I climb the stairs to my flat feeling mentally exhausted, but rather proud of myself - it’d been a busy shift, and I was still learning some of the more complex drinks, but I’d only botched a few orders and had gotten a fair amount of praise from the other employees. 

Apron in one hand, I unlock the door with the other. I can’t help my heart fluttering, hoping Phil will be there waiting, but disappointment crashes in sharply when an empty space greets me. 

“Phil?” I ask, not loudly, just enough that I know he’d hear if he weren’t visible. I release the breath I was holding, hope draining from my chest. Looks like I’m alone for the evening. _Hello, Netflix_. I make a rushed microwave meal, wolfing it down quickly - I’d gotten a muffin at the coffee shop early on in my shift, but am definitely hungry again - before unplugging my laptop to join me on my bed.

Hours pass in almost-silence as I catch up on some shows, find a few new ones, and rewatch a few favorites; as the episode ends, I realize night has fallen. _Still no Phil,_ I sigh internally, looking up from my screen and blinking into the darkness a few times to clear my glazed eyeballs. 

I check the time, _two in the morning, great_ , and take a mental inventory - work tomorrow from five to close, but otherwise, nothing pertinent. _Excellent, because I’m not even tired..._ I find myself wishing for the calming presence of Phil, and not just to satisfy my fantasies. Something about having him around soothes my racing thoughts. I recall the two nights when he’d been gone, I had barely slept at all - not unusual, but certainly unwelcome.

I set my laptop aside, deciding it’s time for a late-night snack, when I hear a small sound in the kitchen. My hopes skyrocket as I make my way there, getting the best of me. _He isn’t real,_ the logical, cynical voice in my head invades my heart for a moment, and I almost turn back to my room.

But I’m in the lounge, and I see just the lightest shadow of a figure sitting on the kitchen counter, and I almost laugh.

“Phil?” I call his name tentatively, wondering if he can even hear me - he’s barely there at all, it must be tough for him to show up right now.

“Hey Dan!” His voice is clear and bright, but I hear a note of sadness under his usual enthusiastic tone. He climbs down from the counter and becomes slightly more visible; no longer just the vaguest of outlines, but something that could pass for a real person.

I’m smiling, I notice, and my mind has already relaxed - but his odd tone catches me off guard, and I feel obligated to ask. “Is something wrong?” I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, but I’m rewarded with a small smile as he walks toward me.

“Can we go sit?” He asks, and I wonder if I should be nervous - _you fucked up, Dan, he’s annoyed by you, he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore, he’s letting you down easy,_ the thoughts tumble through my head again. But Phil grabs my hand to lead me to my bedroom, and my mind quiets. In awe of the sudden calm, I allow him to drag me to from the lounge; he releases my hand in the doorway and crosses the room, plopping down on my bed. 

I realize I’m staring, still stood in the doorway, when his blue eyes meet mine and he pats the bed beside him. I manage to find my feet, then mirror his position against the headboard. I stay silent, though, waiting for him to break the ice. Whatever he wants to talk about, I don’t want to push him too far.

After another few moments, he speaks. “ _I’m terrified_ ,” he admits, and I wouldn’t have heard him except for the complete silence surrounding us. I wait, expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t elaborate. I look over to see his head hung, black hair blocking most of his face. He doesn’t look like the cocky, confident person who’d been here this morning, or last night, or ever. I want to speak, to acknowledge him, but I’m not sure what to say.

Before I can think too hard about it, I reach out and take his hand in mine. And then _I’m_ terrified, terrified he’ll pull away or reject me or disappear, but he doesn’t. His gaze shifts toward his hand, my hand holding it, then up to my face. I stare into his blue eyes, and I’m surprised to notice they aren’t entirely blue - flecks of green and yellow pop out, and I’m struck again by how absolutely _mesmerizing_ they are.

Phil drops his gaze and takes a deep breath - _does he need to breathe, or is it just a force of habit?_ I find myself wondering. I wait, hoping he’ll continue.

“That...place I go to,” he starts, voice still soft, “every time I go, I’m afraid I won’t be able to come back. I’m _terrified_ I’ll be stuck there,” he doesn’t say any more, so I squeeze his hand - I’m once again shocked by how _real_ he feels. His head is bowed, and I bump his shoulder gently to get his attention. When his eyes meet mine, I flash a small smile, hoping to earn one in return.

“But you’re here now, aren’t you?” I say, voice barely louder than his, and I’m rewarded for my efforts. It’s not the bright, excited smile I’ve grown used to, but a small lifting of the corners of his mouth. Despite the smile, he looks so _sad_ , and the only thing in my head is how much I _don’t want him to be sad like that_ , and I allow myself this one thing. Just one.

I lean in, closing the gap between us, and press my lips to his. After the initial moment of excitement coursing through my veins, my heart plummets in fear. _He’s going to push me away, or he’s going to run away, he’s going to go to_ that _place because he doesn’t want to be here with me anymore, look what I’ve done, chasing off my only real friend, who_ \- my brain kindly reminds me - _probably isn’t even_ real _to begin with, and…_

My protests are cut off when a cool hand reaches behind my neck, pulling me closer, deeper into the kiss, and I’m lost. I don’t even bother to keep track of my thoughts, they fall away, and all that’s left are his lips. 

I break away first - apparently ghosts _don’t_ need to breathe - but he holds me in place, our foreheads resting against each other. Again, I’m tempted to leave my eyes shut - _if you don’t open them, his reaction can’t be bad_ \- but I want to see his eyes, so I open mine anyway. 

“Was, uh, was that okay?” I break the silence, voice low and hesitant. His lips break into a beautiful smile, and I can’t help but mirror it.

“That was…” I’m hung on his every word, his eyes look down, then back up to meet mine. “That is why I’m terrified. I don’t want to be stuck there. I want to be here.” He states, so simply, but it makes my heart soar, and I wonder if it’ll ever come back down.

“I want you here, too,” I find myself saying, though I’m suddenly very tired. Granted, it must be close to three or four in the morning, so I guess I should be. “Will you…” I trail off, suddenly shy and unsure how to ask.

“Go to sleep, I’ll stay as long as I can,” he gives me a small smile, scooting down and pulling me into his chest. We’re silent, now, and I fall into that lovely dreamless sleep more quickly than I expect to.


	9. The Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little angsty, a little fluffy.

A full day passes without Phil, this time. Which leaves my brain free to jump to every conclusion in the book - _he’s bored of me, all I ever do is fall asleep when I’m with him; the kiss was wrong, I shouldn’t have done it, and now he doesn’t ever want to see me again, he’s second-guessing it;_ or, even worse: _he’s here, he just doesn’t want to see me._ Work passes, unremarkable but distracting enough to keep my thoughts occupied, and then I’m alone in the apartment again.

Then something occurs to me, something far more painful than all my other theories combined. _He’s stuck. He’s stuck in the white place and can’t come back, and I’ve lost him forever._ Followed shortly by the ever-persistent _he isn’t real. I imagined him._ And I’m back to square one.

I spend hours trying to distract myself - social media, games, Netflix, I even text my parents to let them know I’m doing alright - but I can’t keep the thoughts from running marathons around my head. It’s two in the morning, again, and I find myself in the kitchen, hoping Phil will show up like the night before.

Nothing. Silence. I sit on the floor, back to the counter, resolving to stay _just in case._ My mind drifts back to the kiss, how it felt on my lips, his hand behind my head and pulling me closer, how I could _feel_ him, and my heart starts to hurt. The dull throb prompts me to redirect my thoughts. _How did he end up here? Why can I touch him, why is this happening?_

I stay for another hour, my brain pondering this, before it goes back to flipping between _just wait for one more minute, he may show up,_ and _he isn’t real, you’ve made him up, he isn’t going to appear_. Finally, I give up waiting and return to my bed. Though my mind is wired, my body is exhausted, and I get a couple hours of fitful sleep before my alarm goes off.

I’m stuck working an early shift today, after having been on closing shift the night before, and I’m barely functional as I make my way down to the coffee shop. I’m grateful for all the hours Dave’s scheduled me - I may have mentioned being strapped for cash during my training - but when I’m barely getting any sleep, I don’t know if I can handle being a decent employee.

\----------------------------------------------------

I was honestly a mess at work - I can’t count the number of drinks I screwed up, and I was slow and uncoordinated the entire day. Even now, I’m struggling to unlock the door, my hands just not moving the way I want them to.

When I finally get the door open, I’m rewarded for my efforts by the world’s best jumpscare - Phil’s standing right at the entrance, fully visible, and smiling brighter than the midday sun.

“How was work?” He’s almost shouting, and I can hear his excitement. I can’t tell if it’s excitement to see me, or excitement to be back from the white place, or just his general personality, but I smile regardless.

“It was...well, kind of shit,” I admit, “I was really tired and distracted all day, but at least it’s over for now. I had to be in so early this morning, but at least I don’t have to be in til ten tomorrow.” I lament, glancing at the clock on the microwave as we make our way into the kitchen. Three in the afternoon, and I’m ready to fall into bed.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that!” Phil schools his face into a frown, mirroring my annoyance. “At least you can sleep in a bit more tomorrow!” I laugh, he’s so positive, and he flashes me that amazing smile.

I open up my laptop, feeling in the mood for some music. “Hey, would you mind grabbing me that sandwich I left in the fridge yesterday?” Again, I’d had just a muffin at work, and food was sounding very good right now.

“Uh…” Phil starts, and I stop my music search to glance in his direction. His head is down, not meeting my gaze. “I can’t really touch anything right now,” he says, and I want to laugh at how embarrassed he sounds, but he looks so disappointed in himself that I move past it quickly.

“No problem, you said you can’t always be fully...corporeal,” the word feels unfamiliar on my tongue, but I continue, “so it’s no big deal!” I push a smile to my own face and wait for him to look up. He gives me a sheepish smile in return, and I pull the sandwich out of the fridge myself.

“What are you in the mood for?” I continue, taking a quick bite of the sandwich before resuming my musical search. “You said you liked Muse, right?” I add, and he nods enthusiastically. I switch on a playlist and let the music fill the silence as I take another bite of my sandwich.

I try to finish quickly, uncomfortable just standing there with no words between us, and toss out the remains before grabbing the laptop and heading to my bedroom. In the threshold, I realize Phil hasn’t followed me.

“Phil?” I call behind me, momentarily worried he’s gone again, but he appears behind me with a small smile.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me to follow, y’know, if you were tired or whatever,” and I laugh at his hesitation. 

“I just wanted somewhere more comfortable to hang out,” I explain, walking over to the bed. I gesture at the space across from me, but instead of walking over, he disappears and reappears on the bed, already sitting.

“It’s easier, when I can’t be fully corporeal,” he says, by way of explanation. I simply nod, figuring he knows more about this than I would, and set my laptop between us. I close the lid halfway so the music continues but I can make it clear I’m paying attention to _Phil_ , not the laptop.

“So,” I start - my sleepless nights have given me quite a lot of time to think about the kind of questions I want to ask. “You said you don’t remember much about when you first…” I hesitate, even now, to say the word “died”, so I skip over it, “but is there _anything_ that stands out?” I lock my eyes on his, hoping for something to cling to.

Phil is an enigma, and I want to know _why_ he’s here, _why_ I can see him, _why_ he can sometimes touch things, _why_ he even exists - _If he even exists_ , my brain kindly chimes in. I don’t like unsolved mysteries, I don’t like situations I can’t explain, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the simplest way to fix all the nonsense in my head is to _understand_ what’s happening here.

Phil’s eyebrows furrow, and I give him a moment. “I really don’t know, I mean, I remember hitting my head, I remember that white place, and then I remember being back here. Not much else,” he looks confused, though. “Why?”

I nod, and try to summarize my reasoning to him, expecting him to get excited that I was trying to help him figure things out. “...so we can understand...why....you’re here…” I finish the sentence rather lamely, noticing his eyebrows - if possible - scrunch closer together, and his lips pull down in a frown.

“Does it matter?” Phil asks, and I wonder for a moment if it _does_ , but that voice in my head reminds me that _just maybe he doesn’t exist,_ and I’m fervently for the idea again.

“Of course it does! Don’t you want to know? Doesn’t it bother you?” I try, hoping he’ll see the desperation, or hear it in my voice. If he does, I can’t tell, but he drops the frown and shakes his head slightly. His lips press together in a tight line, and I wonder if he’s annoyed with me - _way to botch that up, good going._

“I’ve been here for three years, so, sure, I’ve wondered why. But I gave up looking for that answer a long time ago,” he says, voice low and - _he_ is _annoyed! But I need to understand this, he can’t just….brush it off!_ I open my mouth to object, but am stopped by his lips on mine.

The music fills the space we left open, and my brain empties as well. Now he’s the first to break the kiss, though his hand still holds my face, and I manage to find my (very hoarse) voice.

“I guess you can touch me, now,” I chuckle slightly, but his eyes don’t leave mine. I’m certain he’s ignored my attempt at lightening the mood.

“Isn’t this,” he pauses, running a thumb across my cheek, “enough? Does it really matter _why_ I’m here? Can’t we just…” he trails off, and I almost expect that to be it, but he picks it back up. “Can’t we just enjoy each other’s company while we have it?” And he’s staring at my lips and I can’t speak so I just nod, and he smiles before pulling me back in.

Minutes pass, maybe longer, it’s hard to tell, but we find ourselves lying on the bed - Phil’s pressing kisses to every exposed patch of my skin, and I don’t dare move. I’m afraid that if I even shift the slightest bit, this reality will shatter, and I’ll wake up in a cold sweat, all of this just a fever dream.

So I stay still, motionless, and let myself believe in this dream for a while longer. I pretend that Phil’s real, he’s here, he’s kissing me, and - for once - my mind is too lost in him, in this, to bother arguing.


	10. The Cereal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get hella frustrated!
> 
> tw if mild smut makes you uncomfortable

I wake from yet another dreamless sleep in a haze. A separate part of my mind recognizes that it’s dark, now - I must’ve fallen asleep sometime after work, after Phil... _Phil_. I lazily recall the touches, the kisses; we didn’t go any farther - _if he’s a ghost, though, would that even be possible? Could we have? Did he want to? Did_ I _?_ I decide not to think about that too much, because I know exactly where that will lead my brain and I do _not_ want Phil to notice that.

Phil - whose arms I feel around me. The slow gears in my head finally catch up to the situation I’m in, curled against Phil’s chest. His arm is around my back, holding me close.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” his voice is low, affectionate, and it makes me want to bury my face back into his chest. So I do. “Come on,” he shakes me a bit, “you’ve been sleeping for hours. Do you want to eat something?” I notice the emptiness in my stomach, almost biting, but I shake my head.

“Can I just stay here for a little?” I mumble into his shirt. It’s soft, and I want nothing more than to _not_ move. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and I’m thinking I’ve won, until my traitorous stomach makes a noise, clearly protesting my lack of movement.

“No, come on, your stomach just _growled_ at me, I’m not going to let you starve.” I hear the chuckle, then he’s shifting and a whine escapes my throat. His body shakes with laughter, and I can feel heat flush my face. _You literally can’t leave the attractive guy you’re currently cuddling with for even a second - way to sound desperate!_ I hush my thoughts, but my stomach gurgles again and I give up all hope.

“Alright, alright, I’ll get something to eat, I was just _really_ tired, and comfortable.” I try to sound annoyed at the idea of having to leave the _bed_ , as opposed to having to leave the _person_ , but I don’t think Phil cares. He smirks at me as I sit up, allowing my brain catch up with my movement, and then stand shakily. _I guess I do need to eat something_.

Phil frowns briefly at my wobbly stance, but I correct it and begin moving toward the kitchen. He follows, and I bask in the _normalcy_ of it all. _Well, not that having a guy make out with me and sleep with me and apparently enjoy my company is a regular occurrence in my life, but at least he seems_ real _. At least_ this exact moment _seems real._

Lost in my thoughts, I barely notice as Phil sets a bowl of cereal in front of me. I munch at it distractedly, until my vacant eyes refocus and catch on his. _Blue, with a bit of green and yellow_ , I think, picturing them far closer to mine. And then I realize I haven’t said a word to him. I glance down at the cereal - which I’ve apparently almost finished - and back to Phil, now sporting an amused grin. 

“Oh, uhm, thanks for the cereal,” I manage around a mouthful, chewing quickly and swallowing. “You must be super…” I struggle for the right word, but give up and gesture toward him instead, “today. I don’t think I’ve ever felt you that much, I-” as soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how they sound, and I drop my eyes to the almost-empty cereal bowl, stirring the few pieces around in the milk aimlessly.

“Well…” Phil smirks, _the bastard_. “There was a _lot_ of physical contact earlier,” he’s chuckling now, and I wonder if he can see the shade of red on my cheeks get darker with each word. Because I can certainly _feel_ it. At the very least, he definitely notices my embarrassment. “You loved it,” he laughs, leaning on the countertop across from me. I try to ignore him, taking the last bite of my cereal.

And suddenly, his lips are next to my ear. “ _You want to do it more,_ ” and I hear the seductive tone in his voice. If he was joking, my body did _not_ get the memo - I nearly choke on my cereal, and suddenly my face isn’t the only thing blood is rushing to.

I turn to face him, trying to ignore every feeling other than annoyance, but he’s not there. I wonder, for a moment, if he’s back in the white again, and my growing erection is suddenly the least of my concerns.

“Da-an!” I hear him call, his taunting tone turning my name into two syllables, and I release a breath - he hasn’t left; I allow myself to relax. Until it registers that he’s calling to me _from my bedroom_. I’ve never been with a guy before, certainly not with a ghost, and have no idea what exactly Phil has in mind.

I allow the creaking of the floorboards to center me as I make my way through the hall, because _yes_ , I really want this. I don’t know what exactly _this_ is, but I want it, with Phil, and there are so many weird complications that it’s making my head spin, but I _really, really want this_.

I find Phil lying on my bed, smirk on his face. _Well, fine, you got me flustered - but two can play at that game_. Instead of laying down next to him, which is what he’s obviously expecting, I push his shoulders back into the mattress and straddle him, feigning a confidence I _seriously_ do not have. 

But it must work, because Phil looks surprised in the moment before I lean down and press my lips to his, and I hear a soft noise from his throat as his hands find my hips. At first, I’m so completely engrossed in the kiss and the momentary high of surprising Phil that I don’t realize his leg has hooked under mine, and his grip on my hips has changed.

Until I find myself on my back, Phil hovering over me - instead of just a smirk, he’s giggling, tongue poking through his teeth. Recalling the desire I’d had when I first met him, I lift a hand to the nape of his neck to pull him down to me, poking his tongue with my own. His eyes go wide, and I’m so pleased at being able to surprise him for a second time that I actually giggle.

Then his smile turns mischievous, and he’s kissing me again - not my lips, but my collarbone. His hands find the hem of my shirt and the skin underneath it, and it sends goosebumps flying across my skin. I’m afraid to move, afraid to ruin the illusion. _Surely I am not this lucky, surely I am going crazy. Surely this is not real. Phil is not real._

But his lips, his hands, the weight of his hips on mine - they all say otherwise, and I lose myself in it. And then his mouth finds my neck, that one spot, and a moan escapes my throat. If I had any ability to move, or think, or function, I might be a bit embarrassed. But Phil doesn’t stop, doesn’t comment, though I can feel his smile against my skin.

And then, as he makes his way back to my lips, full awareness snaps back into place and my eyes go wide. He’s completely shifted from hovering over me to resting his weight on me, and if he shifts even the slightest bit, he will definitely feel _just how much_ I’m enjoying this.

As if reading my now-panicked expression, he smiles and - _of course, he does the_ exact _thing I was hoping he wouldn’t do, shit, what do I say now? What am I supposed to do?_ I close my eyes, pulling on the tried-and-true method of ignoring the problem and hoping it’ll go away.

To my utter shock, I feel him grind his hips into me just slightly, and another moan escapes my mouth despite myself. 

“Enjoying this, are you?” He asks, voice low in my ear, and his ensuing chuckle vibrates through my chest. He presses his hips into mine again, and I bite my lip to avoid _yet another_ embarrassing moan - _why the fuck am I so damn sensitive_.

Caught in my own mental cursing, I almost don’t realize he’s moved back to my neck, a hand supporting himself on the bed beside us and the other at my waist, thumb trailing lazy circles on the exposed skin. I’m letting myself sink into it again, when he interrupts his attention to my neck.

“Y’know,” his voice is low, and he follows the word with a kiss, “I heard you,” another kiss, to my collarbone this time, “those nights I was gone,” _kiss_. This captures my attention - what _exactly_ had he heard? “When you said my name,” _kiss_ , and I wonder if he’s reading my mind. I’d definitely said some nasty things, shouted at the emptiness, but I’d also given into a couple fantasies, fantasies _about Phil_. And I had not been very quiet about it. “No,” he amends, _kiss_ , “when you _moaned_ my name,” _kiss,_ and I’m flushed with embarrassment - _so he’d heard...that_. “You have,” _kiss,_ “such a pretty moan,”and his lips find my neck again, his hand slides down the front of my jeans, and I can’t help it.

“ _Phil!_ ” I know, I _know_ it’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for, and my eyes shoot open as I moan his name. His face has come up to my level, again, and his eyes are no longer the bright blue of a sunny day, but the dark grey-blue of an ocean in a storm, and I’m surprised to find that I can actually _see_ the desire. _He_ wants _me, like, actually, really, wants me_. And then I watch those eyes cloud in confusion before he disappears.


	11. The Napkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You thought that was bad? Just wait.

“FUCKING HELL, PHIL!” I shout at the empty space above me. “You couldn’t have stayed for _five more minutes_!?” I groan in frustration, rubbing my fists into my eyes. 

“Fuck it, your loss!” I yell, angry at the constriction of my jeans and at the person who left me _so damn unsatisfied_. I slide my own jeans and pants down, focusing on Phil as I get myself off - his lips, how they’d kissed me, and sucked at my neck, and... _how they would look wrapped around my cock_. The image slips in unbidden, but I don’t fight it and I’m soon moaning Phil’s name again. 

“Serves you right,” I mutter as the high of...well, _everything that had just happened_ , wears off, and I feel a dull ache settle into my skull. This whole thing, it’s absolutely absurd. I sigh, heading to the bathroom to clean myself off, secretly hoping Phil will show up just so I can yell at him in person. On my way out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see a _very_ noticeable hickey - _so I have to remember what he did to me, but he’s off scot free, is that it?_

I flop back onto my bed, utterly spent - _and not even in the good way_ , I muse bitterly - and fall into something empty that must be sleep.

\----------------------------------------------------

“Dan...Dan? Wake up!” I hear the voice, and my brain takes a full thirty seconds to connect it to Phil. I groan - _why do I feel hungover? I definitely don’t recall even...buying...alcohol..._ my internal voice trails off as the events of last night return to me.

“Why’d you leave?” I know I’m being whiny, and I know he can barely hear me with my face still firmly planted in the pillow, but I want an answer. _I already know the answer - he can’t help it_ , my inner voice battles my unreasonable anger, until a third player comes into the ring. _Because he isn’t real, remember?_ I mentally shove it all aside, groaning again.

“Get up, Dan!” Phil’s voice hits my ears and sends a wave of pain through my skull. He’s tugging on my arm now, trying to get me to move, but I don’t.

“M’not going anywhere til you answer,” I state resolutely, and the hand falls from my arm.

“I couldn’t help it - I went to the white place. I couldn’t even hear anything here,” he sounds dejected, and I believe him, “I wanted to stay, I really, _really_ did,” he continues, his voice much softer now. “But you need to get up, you’re late!” His voice jumps an octave, and I almost ask him _what on earth_ I’m late for when it hits me like a freight train.

“Work! Oh _shit,_ Phil, what time is it!?” I lament, jumping out of bed and wincing at the pounding in my head. I rush to the bathroom, running a comb hastily through my messy brown hair. “Phil?” I shout, struggling into a fresh jumper - _one_ , I note, _that will hide my_ very _noticeable hickey_ \- and some clean jeans before fishing my wallet and phone from the pocket of yesterday’s pair.

“It’s almost noon!” I hear the voice from the kitchen, and I let out a string of curses.

“Dave is going to _kill_ me,” I mumble to myself. “I’ll talk to you later!” I shout to Phil, too wrapped up in the situation to bother with the swirl of emotions that bubbles up when I remember last night. “I think I’m scheduled til four,” I add, pulling the door open and letting it slam before locking up. After half a moment’s hesitation, I jiggle the doorknob before rushing off down the hall.

I’m almost at the staircase when it jiggles in response, and I smile despite my sour mood.

\--------------------------------------------------

“Dan? Dan, are you with us? Earth to Dan!” I hear the muffled voice, but I can’t really see anything. Then the world begins to fill itself in around me, bits and pieces falling into place.

The voice clears, and it’s _voices_ , which I recognize belong to my manager, Dave, and a young woman - a coworker whose name I never bothered to learn, or maybe just forgot. 

Then I can feel the floor underneath me - underneath my _ass_ , to be specific. _Why am I on the floor?_

“Dan, are you alright?” Dave’s face slowly manifests in front of me, followed by the rest of the coffee shop, fading into focus through a black vignette.

I’m still processing everything, trying to remember what happened, so I don’t answer - rather, I’m not sure I _can_ answer, if my brain has rebooted enough to allow for speech.

I can feel someone holding something to my nose, and I reach a shaky hand up to take it. _A wad of paper napkins? Why’s there a wad of...oh..._ my thoughts trail off as I lift the napkins slightly - they’re soaked with blood, and I can feel a slight drip on my upper lip. I replace the napkins, still shaking.

“Do you remember what happened?” The woman, again, and I stretch my memory backwards, trying to recall anything before this exact moment.

“I was, uh, making a drink,” I pause as the events come back to me, “I think I was about to set it down, but-” I halt, honestly unsure what had prompted the blackout. “I’m probably I’m just tired, and I haven’t eaten anything today,” I add, quietly. I don’t need any more attention on me. “I think I’m fine now,” I insist, moving to get up and catching myself on the counter.

“Do you need to go to A&E?” The woman asks, and I feel bad that I can’t recall her name.

“No, I’m, uh, fine - really!” I say when she eyes me strangely. I lower the napkins from my nose and sniff experimentally. When I feel nothing, I reach up to double-check the blood has stopped, then add, “I’m good, honestly, let me just wash up and I’ll be back.”

“No, Dan, you need to go get some rest,” Dave crosses his arms and fixes a hard gaze on me, and I don’t bother arguing. When I’d arrived almost two hours late, he’d given me a similar look before tossing me a loaner apron - I’d completely forgotten mine - and telling me it had better not happen again.

I nod, removing and handing over the borrowed apron, then taking slow steps toward the entrance. I can feel the dizziness at the edge of my brain, the blackness at the edge of my vision, but I’m not about to go to the hospital because of a stupid faint and bloody nose.

I make my way cautiously up the staircase of my apartment building, taking an exaggeratedly long time on each step, because the only thing worse than falling on my ass in the middle of a coffee shop would be falling down a flight of stairs. By the time I make it to my door, my head is slightly clearer, and I’m fairly sure I’m no longer fighting off another faint.

My hands are still suspiciously shaky, though, as I pull out my keys and unlock the door.

“You’re back early,” I hear Phil’s voice from the kitchen. “Did they let you...oh,” Phil stops as I enter the lounge, taking it slow. “What happened?” I watch his face as it deepens into a frown, clearly concerned.

“It’s fine, it was nothing,” I say, waving a shaky hand in dismissal and mentally cursing my inability to keep it steady. Phil’s gaze doesn’t lighten, so I amend. “I just fainted a bit,” I mutter, and he’s suddenly next to me. 

“Are you...is that blood?” He asks, and I manage a nod.

“I think, maybe I should just lay down for a while. I’ve been exhausted lately, I probably just need more sleep,” I say, turning slowly and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

Before I can get halfway through the lounge, I collapse again - and I am painfully aware of every second of it. My legs give out under me, and I catch myself on my hands and knees, slamming into the wooden floor. I grunt in pain before falling on my side and deciding that I don’t really need to lay in a bed, this will be just fine.


	12. The Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's a liar (I promise this is the last time I'll break your heart in this one, soz friends!)

I wake up more uncomfortable than I think I’ve ever been, and my head is aching, but at least I don’t feel dizzy any longer. I push myself up slightly, then into a seated position. When the veil of blackness doesn’t drop over my eyes, I take it as a good sign, then take a few deep breaths for good measure. 

I expend a bit of effort to scoot myself over to the wall, wishing I had Phil here to hold onto as I try to stand up, but he’s probably disappeared or he would’ve tried to help me.

When my breaths are normal again, I start to push myself up the wall, pausing when I’m fully standing. It’s at this point I notice Phil, slightly translucent, sitting on the countertop in the kitchen. Just watching.

“You could’ve said something, jeez,” I try to joke, but my voice is hoarse and it ends up sounding accusatory. He looks sadly at me before disappearing and reappearing closer to me. “Can you help me get to bed?” I phrase it as a question, but his lack of solidity is answer enough - though he shakes his head when I ask.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes downcast.

“No, it’s fine, it’s not your fault-” I start, assuming he’s apologizing for not being able to help, but he cuts me off.

“It’s not, I should’ve told you,” he says, and I am suddenly very confused. My face must show it, because he takes a step toward me, reaching out his hand and then dropping it. “I should’ve told you, I _do_ know why I can touch you sometimes - not always, and I don’t know exactly how it works, but I should’ve said something, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d get hurt,” he’s rambling now, and staring at his feet, and I wish he’d look up because now _my_ mind is whirring again, and I slump back to the floor.

“Dan, are you alright?” Phil trains his eyes on me for a moment, still bright and intense despite his translucent form, and I nod. Then shake my head.

“Just tell me what’s going on, Phil,” I say, both weary and wary at this point. He sighs, and I wait for an explanation.

“When I’m here - the white place, that’s real, and I can’t always control when I’m there and when I can stay here - but when I’m here, I can mostly decide how...solid I am,” he says, and I nod - this isn’t new information, so I wait for him to go on. “What I didn’t explain is _how_ that happens,” and I look up to find him still watching me. “It’s you, Dan.”

I furrow my brows at him - _what does he mean, it’s me?_ And then pieces start to come together, but his voice beats my brain to drawing the full picture.

“To be physically here, to be able to touch things, to touch _you_ , I need some kind of energy. And I’ve been stealing yours,” he drops his gaze, as if waiting for my backlash. But honestly, I’m just too tired. I can’t process this, I can’t even think straight. I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall.

“I didn’t know it would hurt you,” Phil’s still talking, and I can hear him, but it’s almost background noise now, I can’t stay awake. “I didn’t expect...I didn’t know how much I’d want to...to touch you,” I hear the words, and I can feel a warmth blossom in my heart, but I can’t respond and I let the blackness envelop me. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

I’m woken by a soft hand on my shoulder, and - without opening my eyes - I can tell it’s Phil.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers in my ear, and I think my lips tug up in a small smile, though I’m too far gone to say for sure. “I need to go now, I need you to be okay.”

My heart flutters when he kisses my cheek, so gently, but something feels wrong - _he needs to go?_ “I’m so glad I got to know you,” he says quietly, and I’m suddenly very awake.

“Phil!” I shout, eyes flying open, but an empty lounge greets me. My heart is racing in my chest, and I stand too quickly, but I can’t be bothered to care as I push against the blackness and stumble my way from the wall to the countertop, searching for the familiar blue eyes and bright smile.

I make my way haltingly through lounge to my bedroom, relying on the wall for support. I check every corner: under the bed, inside the wardrobe, I even pull aside the shower curtain in the bathroom, but I can’t find him.

“Phil, I swear on my _life_ , get back here _right fucking now!_ ” I yell, trying desperately to hold onto the anger instead of the utter despair I feel coiling in my chest. “Phil, _I’m not fucking around!_ ” I slam a fist against the wall, simultaneously pissed at the pain and grateful that I didn’t do any damage.

The pain in my hand brings a spark of clarity to my surroundings, but it’s shortly replaced by a dull throb that echos the ache in my chest. I mutter string after string of expletives, but they devolve into a stream of nonsense and, eventually, sobs, as I fall onto my bed and curl into a ball. _He left me._


	13. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whomst'd've thought Facebook was still relevant?

I don’t get out of bed if I can help it - at first, I tried to sleep, but sleep never came, and I just wallowed in my thoughts.

I was dragged back to reality by a text from Dave asking if I would be coming into work the next day - I sent an affirmative before checking the time (and date, I really didn’t know how much time had passed). Then set an alarm for the next day before returning to my depressing introspection. 

I’d managed to arrive - showered and on time - to work the next day, and every day after. I’d even asked Dave if I could pick up a few extra shifts (“To make up for missing so much, plus I just really need the cash,”) and ended up spending most of my time at the coffee shop. Any spare moment was spent on social media, Netflix, anything to distract me. 

The nights were the worst, without a screen pulling my thoughts elsewhere, without a throng of people around demanding my attention. I spent every single one of those nights lost in my head, imagining the blue eyes and soft skin, the thousands of things I wanted to do to him, with him, the things that I couldn’t do, could never do, because he’d left me. _He was never real_. 

Even now, the voices in my head spend most evenings fighting each other, while I sit on the sidelines and watch with disinterest. _What does it matter, anyway? He’s still gone._ I rub absently at my neck, the exact spot he’d left a mark. The mark that I had clung to when I’d almost convinced myself I’d made him up. It’s almost gone - in the right lighting, I can’t even see it anymore.

I unlock my phone again, desperate for anything to take me away from the fear of what might happen once that mark has faded completely. I check all my regular sites, irritated but not surprised when there’s nothing new to capture my attention. I pull up old apps, older sites that I haven’t bothered visiting in a while. I end up on Facebook, scrolling through a sea of updates from people I don’t talk to and reposted articles I really can’t care less about.

And choke out a sob when I see a familiar pair of bright blue eyes staring at me from the screen.

\------------------------------------------------------

I barely take a moment to read the article itself, titled “Miracles Do Happen - Coma Patient Awake after Three Years”, before throwing on last night’s clothes and racing out the door. I almost forget to lock it.

As I hit the street, I flag down a taxi and tell them to take me to the University College hospital - the one mentioned in the article - before taking out my phone and opening the article again. 

“Phil Lester,” I pause, reading his full name for the first time, before continuing, “Phil Lester woke up on Thursday after three years in a coma, which was induced by an unlucky fall and trauma to the head.” I picture the bricked-up fireplace in my lounge - _his_ lounge - and skip around, pulling out phrases as they catch my eye. “...woke up Thursday...been in recovery...parents by his side...University College London Hospital...in good spirits…” I look up from the article, willing the driver to go faster.

 _I can’t believe...this whole time,_ my brain barely forms the thought before it’s shot down by another, more painful one. _What if he doesn’t remember me?_ Suddenly, I feel very sick, and I’m about to ask the driver to turn around, to take me back, when he pulls up to the curb.

When he looks back at me expectantly, I pay him and step outside; the taxi takes off, leaving me to face the hospital on my own.

It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to turn tail and run, to avoid the possibility - the pain - that he might not remember me, but I force my feet toward the entrance, then the front desk. _I have to know._

“Uhm, Phil Lester?” I ask, still unfamiliar with his last name. I expect her to just give me his room number, but she eyes me up instead.

“Who are you with?” She gives me an accusing glare, and I stand for a moment with my mouth open before I figure out what she means. _She must think I’m with a newspaper or something_ \- a miraculous story like his, surely plenty of papers want to interview him.

“I’m not-” I hesitate, realizing how much denial sounds like an admission, so I amend, “I’m actually an old, uh, friend. I saw the article and I wanted to drop by, say hello,” I figure this is close enough to the truth, and after another moment of interrogation-by-eyeball, the woman directs me to room 33B, down the hall to the left. I thank her and walk as quickly as I can without actually running.

As I approach the room, I see a small window inset in the door and take a moment to peer through it. Phil’s sitting up in the bed, smiling and looking, well, _exactly_ how he looked before - blue eyes and black hair standing out against pale skin and white bedsheets, against the white of the whole room, and I don’t even want to blink for fear he might disappear. My heart catches in my throat, and my hand covers my mouth to prevent a sob from coming out. _I thought he was gone, I thought he’d left me_.

I’m startled from my staring when the door flies open - inward, fortunately - and a woman almost walks into me. 

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, are you a friend of Phil’s?” Her voice is sweet, and laced with a thick Northern accent. “Phil,” she calls over her shoulder, still holding the door open, “looks like a friend’s here to see you!” She bustles past me, out into the hall, and I have to remind myself to step into the room before the door shuts.

Phil doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just stares at me - _he clearly doesn’t remember me_. I realize I haven’t said a word, and I’m about to try to explain why I’m here, to say _anything_ \- or maybe just turn around and leave - but he beats me to it.

“ _Dan?_ ”


	14. Phil's Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doorknob from Phil's point of view, told in nine parts. Read the story from Dan's POV first! This has spoilers.

_The Arrival_

I’m sitting - well, hovering, really - in the kitchen, staring at my hand. It’s invisible, like the rest of me, but I’m trying to find the slight distortion that indicates where my skin ends and empty space begins. It’s a game I’ve played for years, though it started off as an experiment. Sometimes, if I focus hard enough, I _swear_ I can see a slight shimmer, the barest reflection that indicates I’m _there_ , I exist in some way. 

Then, very suddenly, the palm of my hand materializes only an inch from my nose. I fall to the floor with an audible thump, part from shock and part from my sudden corporeality. _What on earth?_ I’m sprawled on the kitchen floor, behind the countertop, when I hear the telltale creaking of footsteps in the lounge. _Real, human footsteps._ Everything clicks into place, and I will myself back to my invisible state as quickly as I can.

“ _Hello?_ ” I hear the voice - a young man’s, it seems - calling into the emptiness. I’m incredibly tempted to move, just to see what he looks like, but I don’t want to frighten him. So I stay perfectly still, hoping he’ll find his way to me instead.

I’m thrilled when he rounds the corner into the kitchen - though, fortunately, he doesn’t step inside. Half of his body peeks around the corner, and he’s clothed all in black aside from a white printed logo on his shirt - _does that say Muse? Hard to tell, but if so, he’s got pretty good taste in music...And he’s_ gorgeous - dark brown hair, straightened into a fringe much like my own, with eyes like coffee and chocolate all mixed together. He’s flustered, holding a set of keys toward the fridge threateningly; a light blush has crept up his cheeks, and I’m tempted to stand, to reach out and touch them. He looks immensely confused, and I want to chuckle - he can’t see me, of course, unless I want him to. _I almost do…_

“Wow, if this is the first five minutes in this flat, I’m in for quite a rough year,” he chuckles to himself, and I want to hear that voice in my ears for the rest of eternity. I almost laugh aloud, covering my mouth quickly to prevent any sound from escaping - his sarcasm is adorable.

Then he’s retreating, back across the lounge and toward the bedroom. Against my better judgment, I follow - the solidity of my form is odd to get used to, as it’s been so long since someone lived in this flat, but I shake my limbs experimentally and make my way to the room I had once called my own.

By the time I’m standing in the doorway, he’s already collapsed onto the bed and fallen fast asleep. His face is so peaceful - I decide to sit on the floor next to his bed, just staring at him for what must be hours. Though I’m zoning in and out, my faint smile disappears when I notice him pull his knees closer to his chest with a shiver; I watch for a moment, afraid he’s woken up, but then he stills. I glance around the room, eyes catching on a blanket he’s left crumpled on the floor.

I barely question it, allowing myself to fully manifest so I can grab the blanket and lay it over him. Though it seems he’s fallen back asleep, his hands pull it closer and he snuggles against the bed; a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips and forms an adorable dimple on his cheek. A wave of desire courses through me, and I suddenly want to curl up next to him, to keep him warm and have him snuggling into my chest.

As quickly as the feeling appears, I crush it down. _You can’t do that to him, you’ll only end up hurting him._ Shaking my head, I return to the kitchen.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

I spend the evening there - my favorite spot to hang out - just thinking. It’s been _forever_ since the flat had a new tenant, and it’s always a fun pastime to mull over all the possible ways I can entertain myself. _Pranks are always the best_ , I smile mischievously.

I’m pulled from my plotting by the sound of the shower turning on, and I stand to enact my first trick. It’s comical to me, now, that I actually _need_ to remain unseen - when nobody’s around, I don’t have the energy to become visible, but these escapades require ghostly abilities; I must stay out of sight.

As I enter the bedroom, the stark contrast of black against the light wood flooring draws my eye. _Must be the clothes he was wearing last night_ , I recall, altering my route to inspect them. I spread out the shirt to find the familiar Muse logo staring back at me. _I was right! Great taste in music...maybe I shouldn’t be_ too _mean with my japes…_ I’m still considering this when the water shuts off. 

I retreat to the lounge, battling internally. _We might’ve been friends, before I died_. I consider this as I listen to him get ready, then watch as he slips out of the flat and locks the door behind him. I wander over, pressing a hand against the cold wood. _I hate that I can’t leave here._

I’m startled when the doorknob rattles lightly. Then chuckle - he must be checking it’s fully locked. I consider for a moment, then jiggle the knob from my side. I have no idea if he heard it or not, but it seems like a harmless enough prank for now. I smirk, then return to the kitchen to decide what I’ll do next.

\------------------------------------------------------------

_The Laptop_

Though I usually don’t make an effort to rummage through a tenant's personal belongings, this guy intrigues me, so I make an exception. I’m careful to put everything back exactly where he left it, though, so as not to arouse too much suspicion. _It’s no fun if they figure it out right away_.

I’ve been settled back onto the kitchen countertop for what feels like ages by the time he returns - he doesn’t have all that much to look through, and the few possessions he _does_ have don’t say much about him except that he’s really into black.

He’s got a piece of paper in hand, and he leaves it laying out on the counter before walking to the bedroom; once he’s out of sight, I lean down to look it over. _An application? He must not have a job,_ I ponder for a moment, but am quickly sidetracked when he returns with his laptop. _Finally, something I can have a bit of fun with!_

He moves to set it on the counter and about drops it into my lap; I basically fall backwards off the surface to avoid him. _Too close, need to be more careful,_ I chastise myself, hovering above the floor for a moment before landing softly. He’s pulling something up on the computer, and I grin when music starts pouring through the speakers. Then my face contorts into a frustrated pout - he’s not moving. Instead, he’s just staring at the screen, scrolling every so often, and I plop down on the floor. _I can’t_ do _anything if he’s using it_.

\---------------------------------------------------------

After a few minutes of him standing, he drops to the floor and brings the laptop with him. Several hours pass this way, and I pace the kitchen silently. _Can he just do something else already? I can’t even see the screen now, at least I could’ve watched whatever he was doing if he’d stayed stood up._

I can at least enjoy the music, though - _he has_ amazing _taste in music!_ If someone could create a playlist perfectly tailored to my preferences, it would be this one. I lose myself in the songs, lip-syncing whenever I recognize one, and it fills the time. I’m startled from my reverie by a buzz, and I stand to watch the guy replace his laptop on the counter and answer the door.

Before I have time to wonder who’s here, he’s back; the delicious smell pizza wafts through the flat. Though I’ve always hated cheese, I’d do just about anything to be able to eat a slice right now.

He grabs his application from the counter and sets it down beside the pizza box on the floor of the lounge, then runs to his bedroom, returning with a pen in hand. Once he’s sat down on the floor, evidently reading through the application as he takes a bite of the pizza, I round the countertop to check out the playlist. As I scan through the songs, I’m startled by the sound of a behind me.

“ _Give an example of a time you had to work with a very frustrated customer - how did you resolve his/her problem while maintaining a professional demeanor and promoting a positive view of the establishment?_ ” I’m stunned into silence, which is a good thing, because he isn’t talking to me - he follows the question with his own answer, tone of voice changing to something hilariously upbeat. “ _Usually, when dealing with frustrated customers, I run away and let someone else deal with it!_ ”

I struggle to choke back a laugh, recognizing that sardonic humor from the night before. He writes a few things down, and I wander over to read over his shoulder - his real answer is rather bland and generic, but probably more likely to get him the job. My eyes wander the page until they find his name at the top - _Daniel Howell_. I roll it around in my head, pleased at the way it sounds. 

He reads the second question while I’m lost in thought, but I do hear his answer.

“ _I’m a great team player, I do an excellent job of ignoring everyone and sitting around in a corner all day!_ ” This time, I’m too caught off guard to control my laugh; it’s not loud, but I immediately clamp a hand over my mouth as I back away from him. _Ah crap, now he’s going to know I’m here._ He stands, and I skirt around him, returning to the safety of the kitchen. He follows me - unintentionally - and pauses the music on his laptop.

 _Right in the middle of Radiohead, really?_ I cross my arms, frustrated now, and an idea pops into my head. He doesn’t move at first, listening for any sound, but then he’s making his way through the flat toward the bedroom. _Perfect_ , I smirk.

I wait until I’m positive he’s in his room, then press play on the laptop again. I back into the corner of the kitchen, watching as he returns - checking the door on the way - with that adorable look of total confusion on his face. He approaches the laptop almost hesitantly, pausing the music again. My face twists in a wry smile as he repeats his previous search.

Once he’s returned to the bedroom - far more quickly than the first time - I play the music again. He comes rushing back, and I barely have time to jump out of the way as he slams a finger down on the key to stop it. Then he clicks to close the entire program, and I almost laugh aloud again - _Smart, but I know how laptops work, mate._

As soon as he’s in the bedroom again, I round the counter to the front of the laptop. It takes a second to find the software, but I pull it up and resume the music. 

“FUCKING HELL!” The shout reverberates through the empty flat, and I rush over to the corner of the lounge as a wave of giggles crashes over me. Though he can’t see me either way, I’m glad I don’t hide in the kitchen this time - he’s checking around the back, and I’m willing to bet he’d hear me if I were over there.

This time, he’s standing at the laptop for a little longer - I’m not entirely sure what he’s doing until the entire screen goes black. _Still trying to stump me, are you?_ He’s turned it off, and is now backing _very slowly_ away from the computer. I almost burst out in another fit of giggles, but I bite my lip until the urge to laugh has died down. Once he’s out of sight, I boot up the computer. The creak of bedsprings sounds from the bedroom as I hit the power button; it takes a few seconds to load, then I launch the software. 

When I press play on the song again, an actual _scream_ sounds from the other side of the flat. I double over, trying not to laugh as an unintelligible string of curses bounces around the walls. The face that accompanies Daniel as he storms into the lounge, though, gives me pause. _Alright, that’s enough - I should stop now._ I swallow the last of my laughter, sobering slightly. 

I’m pleased when he doesn’t try to pause the music, though. Instead, he grabs his laptop and retreats to the bedroom. I follow him, and the music, and lean against the wall across his bed. He looks slightly less angry, now, and more...focused, perhaps. I watch from the floor as he spends several hours, working late into the evening. The music permeates the silence, and I let it lull me into a ghostly approximation of sleep.

\---------------------------------------------------------

_The Calling_

I’m not sure where he goes, but he’s gone for a while - he grabbed the application on his way out, so I assumed he’d just gone to drop it off, but he doesn’t return until several hours later, and he’s carrying a bag; I furrow my brows in confusion. 

Just before he enters, I hear the jiggling of the doorknob, and I want to laugh. I’m across the flat, still in the kitchen, but I know it’s him. _Testing me, are we?_ I’ve decided to lay low on any pranks for a bit, with how poorly he reacted to the music thing the night before, so I just return to examining my invisible hand. 

He approaches the counter, bag in hand, and I hop off to allow him space to unpack it. There are a few candles - some autumnal scents - and a black box. _Did he go buy a board game?_ I’m thoroughly confused, until he removes the lid. _A Ouija board?_ Apparently, he does suspect that a ghost is haunting his flat, and I pout. _He’s not supposed to figure it out this quickly_. He’s reading over the instructions, but I turn away. _If he wanted me to show up, he could just ask..._ but people are always so weird about supernatural phenomena, so I flop down on the floor of the kitchen to wait for him to ‘invoke’ me.

It actually takes him several hours, and the sun has already set. _What’s he waiting for?_ I jump at the buzzing at the door, expecting Daniel to get it. When he doesn’t, and the buzzing continues, I stand up to investigate. And almost run smack into him as he exits his room. In fact, have to phase into the wall just to avoid him, which gives me an awkward tingly feeling. _Never been a huge fan of that_ , I grumble silently, then sneak my way around him and back to the kitchen.

He wolfs down the chinese food he’s ordered - _yet another thing I miss about being alive_ , the thought makes me frown - then picks up the board and little plastic triangle. _Show time,_ my grimace turns into a grin, and I follow him into the lounge. He takes his time, setting up the candles around the board. I have to bury the slight chuckle - and concern - that bubbles up in my chest when he burns his finger. 

“This whole fucking thing, it’s a nightmare,” he says, and I’m frozen, struck still by how lovely his voice is, even when he’s annoyed. He bends over the board, fingers on the triangle, and speaks again.

“If, uh...if there are any ghosts, er, sorry, _spirits_ , please make your presence known?” I stare at the ceiling as he says it, trying not to ruin my grand appearance with laughter. “Alright you twat, you’ve been freaking me the _fuck_ out and I am sick of it, so could you just _show yourself_ so I know I’m not insane??” I clamp both hands over my mouth, stifling the sound I know will come out if I let it. His eyes are closed, and I take it as my perfect opportunity.

“Well if you’d wanted to see me, you should’ve just asked,” I do everything I can to keep my voice even, but I’m sure a thread of laughter has snuck its way in. His eyes fly open, and his shock is worth every moment of silence and self-control.

“HOLYSHITWHATTHEFU-” his scream cuts off abruptly, and he’s just staring. I don’t move, suddenly worried I’ll frighten him. _He’s not been reacting the way I’m used to...I hope he’s not too angry…_

“Better close your mouth, a moth might find it’s way in,” I attempt a joke, hoping to calm his nerves - he’s been staring, eyes scanning my body since I appeared. I’m not going to lie, though, I’m sort of enjoying the attention. _It’s been awhile since someone stared at me for this long_.

“How did you get- who are- where did you- _what…_?” He sputters, and I’m struck again by how adorable he looks when he’s confused and flustered.

“Well, you asked for me to show up - and here I am!” I gesture widely, grinning down at him. He blinks at me a few times, clearly unsure what to make of the situation.

“I, uh, I guess...but why are you _here_? And _why have you been messing with me?_ ” He raises his voice, and I drop my eyes, a bit ashamed. _I was just having fun, it gets so boring here._

Instead, I point to the floor across from him. “May I?” I ask, hoping he won’t refuse. He doesn’t, giving me a wary nod, and I sit cross-legged opposite him. I pretend not to notice his hand shaking as he fixes his hair, cursing myself silently for frightening him. I do my best to explain how I got here, that I rearranged his T-shirt - _at least it seems he didn’t notice I went through all his stuff..._ as we talk, he noticeably relaxes, and my heart feels light in my chest. When he says I can stay, and I end up tackling him in a hug. _No, no, I need to avoid doing that. Not only have I freaked him out for sure, but I need to be careful how much energy I’m taking._

He doesn’t seem annoyed by my attack, though, and the conversation flows so naturally. _We could’ve definitely been friends, before_. Then his face flushes, and he asks if I’d seen him naked in the shower. If _my_ face could flush, it’d be bright red right now.

“No, oh my gosh, no, I would _never_ invade someone’s privacy. I mean, not like _that_. I mean, not that you’re _not_ attractive, but I would _never_ do that, I..uh…” I don’t know what else to say, having already rambled to the point of awkwardness. Though my eyes have drifted toward the floor during my answer, I look up now - and he’s staring at me, brown standing out against his light skin. “You’re staring, did I say something wrong?” I’m suddenly _very_ worried - I’d called him attractive, did that make him uncomfortable?

“ _You said I was attractive_ ,” his voice is incredibly soft, I almost don’t hear what he says. _Oh, no, that was a mistake, I shouldn’t have said that, he won’t want me around now…_

“Well, if we’re being technical, I believe I said you _weren’t unattractive_ ,” I hope the joke will lighten his mood, but he hasn’t stopped staring; I clear my throat, dropping my eyes again to hide behind my hair. “I’m actually bisexual. I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but if it does, my offer to leave you alone still stands.” Though I hope he won’t change his mind, the _last_ thing I want to do is freak him out any more than I already have. _I couldn’t ever go so far as to make someone feel genuinely_ unsafe _in their own home._

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just-” my hopes soar, and I watch him expectantly. He’s paused, though, and I’m not sure where he’s going. “I’m actually, uh, bi as well. So it definitely doesn’t make me uncomfortable, don’t worry!” My hopes are doubled, tripled, when he says it, then subsequently crushed in my chest. _You can’t ever be with him, you know that._

“Oh! Well, that’s good to know. Thanks for telling me, I feel a bit better now,” I cover my disappointment with a laugh, and am pleasantly surprised when he joins in. _It’s musical, so much prettier than the bitter laughter last night._ I can’t bring myself to get rid of the thought, so I let it sit inside my head and fill me with a lightness I want to experience forever.

It takes me a solid minute to realize that we’ve both gone silent, I was so distracted by how much I like... _everything_ about him; when I notice he’s dropped his head, I speak up. “So, your name’s Daniel, right?” His head shoots up, and I wonder if I’ve misspoken.

“I, uh, prefer Dan, but...how’d you know that?” His voice is soft again, but full of unabashed curiosity. I explain about his application, and watch the gears in his mind make a few more connections; I confirm that I messed with his laptop, and add that I didn’t realize it would upset him _quite_ that much. He laughs it off, then almost shouts as he smacks himself in the forehead.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours!” The last word is cut off with a yawn, and I give him a half-smile. _Shit, I really shouldn’t have stayed visible for this long, and tangible - he’s already exhausted…_

“My name’s Phil. But you should get some sleep now. We can talk more tomorrow, yeah?” I want him to sleep, recharge, because I want to keep talking to him. I want to pretend this is normal. _I want to be able to touch him_. I bury that last thought in the back of my mind as he agrees, blows out the candles, and heads off to his room.

I meander over to the kitchen and spend the evening relaxing and absorbing the entire situation. _I have a really good feeling about him...Dan..._ I let his name run circles through my head the whole night.

Halfway through the next day, I hear Dan’s phone ring through the walls; a muffled conversation ensues, followed by a string of cursing that makes me chuckle. The shower runs for less than five minutes, then he’s in the entryway. The glistening of his wet hair catches my attention.

“Where are you off to, you’ll catch a cold with your hair wet like that!” I hope my voice is light enough, though a little piece of me is genuinely concerned. _And I was hoping we could spend the day together_. 

“Oh! Uh, hello again!” He greets me, and then just stares. A small smile creeps up my cheeks at how startled he looks. “I got a call to go down to that coffee shop for an interview. I guess they’re short-staffed so I’m going to help out and hopefully do a good enough job that they want to hire me. I need to be there in three minutes, but do you want to maybe, uh, hang out or something? Like, when I get back?” He’s rambling, and it’s adorable how flustered he is.

“Yeah, sounds great! Have a blast,” I enthuse - though I’m sad to see him go, I’m excited for later. I follow him to the door as he locks it shut, and a grin splits my face as he jiggles the doorknob. _Just like the first time_. I jiggle it back, hoping he’s noticed again.

I return to the kitchen, intending to ponder all the things I want to know about Dan, but my vision goes hazy halfway there and I collapse to the floor. A white fog encircles me, and my thoughts spiral out of control. _No, no I don’t want to go to the white place, not now...please…_

\---------------------------------------------

_The White Place_

“Phil?” I can hear the voice, just barely, and it registers how much I love that voice. I can’t see anything, though, aside from the white fog. I can’t even see my own body. I try to scream into the emptiness, but no sound comes out. I know it won’t, but I never stop trying.

It’s impossible to tell how long I’ve been in the white place, though my time is occasionally broken up by the slightest glimpses into the flat. The fog clears a little, and the white is filled with a dark approximation of the bedroom. I’m used to seeing it empty, so I’m confused for a moment when I notice a form beneath a thin blanket. It’s tossing and turning, and a flop of brown hair catches my eye. _Dan?_ The white returns.

It’s later, though I don’t know how much later, and I can see the bedroom again. _Perhaps his energy is drawing me there_. I can see his form, though I can’t see much else through the fog. I can hear, though - the voice is muffled, but I can hear the words.

“ _Phil!_ ” It takes me a moment to register that he sounds different from before, my name is no longer a question. He’s not asking where I am, he’s _pissed,_ and I figure out why as he continues shouting. _He’s mad that I left him..._ my heart clenches in my chest, though I don’t even know if there’s a chest for the heart to be in when I’m in the white place. Each word he screams cuts like a knife, and his voice is hoarse by the time he’s given up yelling at me. _I want to hold him. I want to tell him I didn’t leave, I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry..._

The next flash of reality comes sooner than I expect, and I almost think he’s angry again. 

“ _Phil!_ ” It’s the same volume, but the tone has changed significantly. _Is he…_ my thought is cut off by a moan, and my eyes - if they’re there - go wide. _Is he thinking about me and..._ his voice cuts through my head as he moans my name again, and I can’t get it out of my head, even long after the whiteness returns. _Fucking hell, what that voice does to me…_

\------------------------------------

_The Explanation_

“Need some help unpacking?” I’m finally back from the white place. Though I remember every agonizing moment of watching Dan rage at me, every second I saw of his insomniatic nights, I can’t get the sound of the way he moaned my name out of my head. _I would love to make him do it again…_

I watch the emotions wage war on his face, anger and surprise and - _is that desire? Or am I just searching for it?_ His expression finally settles on anger.

“Where have you been?” Though his face is scrunched, clearly trying to project his frustration, his voice comes out with a slight whine, and have to look away to stop myself from giggling. While I understand he’s upset, I need to explain what happened - _what happens._ He retreats to a corner of the lounge, head in hands. I reach a hand out, laying it on his arm gently; when he looks at me, his brown eyes peek out from under his hair, and it makes me smile.

“Can I explain?” I ask, hoping he’ll allow it. After a moment of consideration, he nods, and I tell him the truth - _most of the truth_ , I remind myself - what the white place is, as far as I know, and what happens when I’m there. He seems fairly understanding, though not too happy about the whole thing. _I can’t blame him, he looked...absolutely miserable._

“Honestly, I couldn’t see anything here for a while. Even when I could, things were a bit foggy. I heard you, though! Just a little, but I heard you say my name.” I say it in an attempt to offer some comfort - that I wasn’t fully gone, that I heard him - but his eyes go wide and his cheeks turn bright red. _Oh, oh I shouldn’t have said that, I don’t think I want him knowing that I heard..._ “You didn’t have to call me names, y’know,” I tack on the comment, immensely glad that ghosts can’t blush. He relaxes slightly, so I change the topic. He’s still not unpacked his boxes, and I offer my help again.

I’m halfway across the lounge, habit drawing me to the kitchen as I wait for him to get up, when I hear him stumble. He’s leaning against the wall, head in hand, and I curse myself silently. _I’ve been sucking far too much energy from him, too much touching and visibility - I need to cool it down._ I must look concerned, because he dismisses it as a consequence of his height and walks across the lounge. I watch him intently the whole way, though I’ve gone off on a tangent about being tall myself - when he doesn’t fall again, even bumping me out of the way of the fridge to rummage for food, I second-guess myself. _Maybe it_ was _just a random bout of dizziness?_

He gives up on the food, calling me ‘adorable’ - _you’re one to talk_ \- and we set to unpacking his boxes. _I promised I’d help,_ I reason, though the rational piece of my brain is reminding me how much energy it’s taking to stay fully solid like this. _Besides,_ one _little dizzy spell is nothing to be worried about..._

\----------------------------------------------

_The Stories_

As he drags his duvet and pillow off into his room, I find I’m tempted to follow; I only debate it for a minute before turning invisible and crossing the lounge. He’s already flicked off the lights and curled up under the covers, and I’m reminded of how peaceful he looked his first night here. Which is quite the opposite of how he looks right now: he’s tossing and turning, muttering curses to himself when he can’t seem to get comfortable.

“Phil?” His voice echoes in the darkness, and I’m a little surprised. _I haven’t turned visible, have I?_ I wave a hand in front of my face to be sure, but see nothing. After a moment, I decide to materialize.

“I was wondering how long you’d toss around before you gave up,” my lips are curled in a wry grin, opting for humor over the words I’m tempted to say, something far too personal - _let me hold you until you fall asleep._

In the dim light, I can see his shocked reaction. “ _Were you watching me sleep!?_ ” I dial up the teasing tone as I respond.

“Well, technically, I was watching you _not_ sleep,” I hide a giggle as his middle finger reflects the pale light from the window. _How is it that, coming from him, even an obscene gesture like_ that _is beautiful?_ “Well, what did you call me in here for?” I say, hoping to distract myself. He’s mumbling into his pillow, so I prompt him again. When he doesn’t respond, I move to the side of his bed and start to poke him.

“Ah! Hey, hey, stop it!” But the look in his eyes is playful, and we’re both laughing, and I hope he _doesn’t_ want me to stop, because his genuine laughter sounds like music. He rolls away, still smiling, and I flop down on the bed to get at him again. Though my attention is focused on where my hands are going, I glance up to find his eyes mere inches away from my own. _How easy it would be to kiss him…_ His breath catches, and I wonder for half a second if _he_ might kiss _me._

I pull away, though, before either of us can act. _You’re dead, you can never really be with him. And you saw how upset he was when you were just in the white place, what if you got stuck there forever?_ “Uhm...sorry about that,” I mumble, “I got a bit carried away, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable…” I don’t even know if he _was_ uncomfortable, but a blanket of awkwardness settles around us. _He’s probably uncomfortable now…_

I shift away, muttering something about seeing him later, though my thoughts are elsewhere. I’m about to stand from the bed when he speaks, almost so quietly I can’t hear it.

“ _But I don’t want you to leave,_ ” that soft voice draws me in, as does his hand on my arm, and the words send my heart soaring. “Please, uhm, please stay. I would appreciate the company, I, uh, don’t really sleep well,” he adds, though I’ve already fully committed to never moving again if that’s what he wants.

“Oh, I’m _well_ aware,” I smirk, using the sarcastic comment to hide my elation. _He wants me here, in his bed._ I try not to let it go to my head. He asks about my ghostly life, and I show him a few party tricks, then return to the bed - he seems impressed; my smirk has returned, and I lean back confidently. Until he smacks me on the chest. It doesn’t hurt, but I feign injury - his reaction isn’t what I expected, and he keys up to attack again. 

As he reaches out, I grab his wrist and pull him toward me - gently, of course - and his head is pressed against my chest. “Hah! Can’t hurt me now, can you?” I laugh, though I can’t focus on anything but the soft brown hair of the man resting on me. _This,_ I think, frozen in the moment, _this is exactly what I want_. _Exactly what I can’t have._ I release him, and he pulls away slowly. 

_Look what I’ve done, either he hates me for getting too close or he’s_ going _to hate me when it hits him that we can’t be together, not really._ I fall into the pit my thoughts are digging for me, fingers worrying at the edge of the duvet. I can hear him speaking, but I’m afraid to listen to his words until he asks about my life. Since most of my time in the flat has been spent alone, I practically live in my memories, and I have plenty of stories to tell.

We settle into a one-sided conversation; though I’m insatiably curious, Dan doesn’t seem to like talking about himself, so I just tell one story after another. He shifts next to me, sliding closer, and his body is fully against mine; though I don’t pause, the warmth of his skin seeps into my own, and I’m tempted to pull him closer. In less than a minute, his head is resting gently on my shoulder, and I ignore the rational side of my brain telling me not to get attached.

I stop my story, reaching an arm around to draw him closer to me. He doesn’t protest, so I allow my thumb to trace small circles around his arm.

“Tired, are you?” I say it softly, in case he’s drifting off, “Do you want me to go, now? I can let you sleep.” I don’t move, though. _Let me hold you while you fall asleep,_ I recall my thought from earlier. 

“Will you stay while I sleep?” he says into my chest, and every ounce of self-control I have, every piece of me demanding that I stand up and walk away _right now_ , shatters into a million tiny pieces. I squeeze his arm gently, responding with a soft confirmation, and feel him relax fully against me. 

Though hours pass, and his steady breaths indicate he’s been asleep since the moment I said I’d stay, I continue the small circles on his arm - it’s calming. I can’t see his face from the angle we’re at, but I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and it’s every bit the peace I saw as he slept the first night.

Since I don’t _need_ to move, I stay with my arm wrapped around him until the sun’s long since risen. I’m almost tempted to let him sleep all day, but the buzz of his phone draws my attention. I hesitate for a moment, then press a gentle kiss to the top of his head as I scoot out from under him.

The phone is lying on the floor next to a worn pair of jeans, and I pick it up. Not a call, as I’d originally expected, but an alarm titled “Work - Noon”. I shut it off, checking the actual time - quarter past eleven. 

I decide to let the light shining in the window do its job, wandering into the kitchen to wait for Dan to wake up. _If he’s not up in fifteen minutes, I’ll get him up myself._ I reason, though a part of me just wants him to get as much sleep as possible. 

I know I could spend hours thinking about everything that happened last night, but I want to save that for later. _I have no clue how long he’ll be at work, better to spend any time I can with him._ I let that thought drag me back to the bedroom, where I find the object of my focus blinking against the light. 

“Morning, sleepyhead!” I announce, exceptionally chipper. He becomes my polar opposite, then, burrowing back into the comforts of the bed until I tug at his arm and remind him of the time. He gets up, pausing before he makes his way to the bathroom. I nod, secretly proud of myself for getting him up in time for work - _kind of_ …

I return to the kitchen, deciding to do a few tests with my energy use to find out how much is required - at a minimum - to be corporeal. I’m struggling to open the fridge when I hear the telltale creak of the lounge floor as Dan sprints out in a panic. I turn, but I’m suddenly paralyzed.

He’s breathing just a bit faster than normal, naked aside from the towel wrapped loosely around his waist. I don’t bother hiding my appreciation, letting my eyes wander every exposed inch of skin. _I want my lips on...everything_. “Well…I certainly hope you’re not headed to work like that,” I taunt; my gaze never leaves his body, and I’m pleased to see the light pink flush creep across his chest and up to his cheeks.

He mumbles some kind of denial, and I stare at the planes of his back as he retreats to his bedroom. I hear the door to the bathroom slam shut, and the click of the lock. _Okay, maybe just a_ little _bit of fun…_

I materialize in the bathroom, just in time to catch the delicious sight of him stretching to pull his shirt over his head. The towel at his waist has dropped _tantalizingly_ low, and I hear my voice drop half an octave. “What, I don’t at least get a show before you cover it all up?”

“PHIL! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?!” He shouts at me, but I’m enjoying the view far too much to care that he’s annoyed - and I tell him as much. He lunges, but falls right through me; I’ve not pulled enough energy to be solid yet. 

“Oh no, Dan, I’m sorry! I haven’t been able to touch anything all morning, I should’ve said so!” I’m giggling through the whole semi-true apology, but he seems far less amused. After a few whiny lines from Dan, I disappear and return to the kitchen to let him finish getting ready.

He’s rushing out the door, and I remind him to grab his apron. As he’s locking up, I wander up to the door. _I wonder if he’ll do it, even though he’s annoyed with me..._ my question’s answered as the doorknob rattles, and I smile as I jiggle it in return.

\------------------------------------------------------------

_The Fear_

I’d gone to the white place again, but it seems I haven’t stayed as long as the previous time. I can feel the energy I’m drawing from Dan once I return. I settle onto the countertop, a surprised sound escaping as I become solid again. Being in that place is always so much worse when I don’t get any glimpses of the flat; it makes me wonder if that’s the time I’ll get stuck there forever.

As if he sensed my presence, Dan’s walking cautiously into the lounge. I attempt a cheerful greeting, but I’m apparently not fooling him - he immediately asks what’s wrong. _How do I say I’m terrified, how do I admit I’m afraid to be stuck, to lose him?_ His brown eyes are watching me, begging for the truth, and then _he_ starts to look scared. 

“Can we go sit?” I would rather say this somewhere...somewhere I felt close to him before. _Maybe that will make things easier to admit_. When he doesn’t move, I take his hand and lead him toward the bedroom. He stands in the doorway as I sit up against the headboard, curling into myself. I pat the bed, and he joins me. “ _I’m terrified,_ ” I say it quietly, but it fills the space anyway.

He doesn’t speak, waiting for me to go on. _Can I even go on? Can I even talk about this?_ Then his hand finds mine, and it’s the courage I need. “That...place I go to...every time I go, I’m afraid I won’t be able to come back. I’m _terrified_ I’ll be stuck there,” I don’t go further, still too scared to admit what _he_ means to me, what it would mean if I had to leave him; instead, I bow my head.

I’m a little surprised to feel his hand squeeze mine, just once, and I look up. “But you’re here now, aren’t you?” He says, and it’s exactly what I need to hear. I smile, just a tiny bit, amazed at the way he’s surprising me. And then he leans in, and his lips are on mine before I realize it, and he manages to surprise me _again_. 

I pull him closer, deepening the kiss - _the kiss_ he _started, he wants this too._ I feel butterflies in my chest, and I never want this to end, but he pulls away first and my heart sinks a bit. Until he takes a very deep breath, and I realize that I’ve not given him much of a chance to breathe. Then _he’s_ asking _me_ if the kiss was alright, and all I can manage is a smile.

“That was…” I start, fear still curling tight in my gut, but I decide to take a leap of faith. “That is why I’m terrified. I don’t want to be stuck there. I want to be here.” It’s the closest I can come to the truth, that I might be falling for him - _that’s a lie, I’ve already fallen_ \- but his face lights up.

“I want you here, too,” his voice is that soft, low tone that sends me flying to the stratosphere, but I can tell how tired he is when he tries to ask me to stay.

“Go to sleep, I’ll stay as long as I can,” I wrap him in my arms and slide us both lower, pulling him close to my chest as he drifts off. _He’s always so tired...I know it’s my fault, but...I can’t just walk away, especially not now…_

\------------------------------------------------

_The Best_

Every moment that passes in the white place sends ripples of fear through my brain, even long after I’ve returned to the flat. It was another long bout, though not as bad as the first time I’d left Dan. _Listen to me, talking like he’s mine…_

I’d been back for an hour or so, and I almost jump at the key slotting into the lock. Since Dan was gone when I returned, I’m running on limited on power, so I materialize at the entrance instead of walking. “How was work?” I exclaim as soon as the door swings open - I realize my mistake when I take a second to analyze him. _He’s exhausted, and I’ve just scared the crap out of him on top of it…_

As anticipated, he tells me he’s had a bad day, and I try to cover my own concern with enthusiasm. “At least you can sleep in a bit more tomorrow!” I note, and it earns me a small laugh. _He’s fine, see? Just had a bad day._

I’m trying to restrict the amount of energy I’m pulling from him, so when he asks me to grab his sandwich, I tell him I haven’t been able to touch anything lately. The guilt must show on my face, because he misinterprets it and reassures me it’s no big deal that I can’t always touch stuff - _it isn’t ‘no big deal’, I’m stealing all your energy and I need to stop._

He pulls up some music as he munches on his sandwich, then takes his laptop to the bedroom once he’s finished eating. I want to follow, but that room... _I know exactly what’s going to happen, if I go in there. I won’t be able to control myself, not when I’m so close to him._

“Phil?” He calls from the doorway, and I know I’m a goner. I materialize behind him, making up some excuse, and then reappear on the bed as he enters the room. He looks mildly confused, so I tell him it’s easier. _It requires less of your energy._ I wince at the thought.

He settles across from me, the laptop between us, and starts on about figuring out _why_ I’m stuck here, in the flat; it strikes a nerve. I’ve never been one to get angry, especially because I know he means well, so I try to dismiss it. But he’s adamant, and it gets to me.

“I’ve been here for three years, so, sure, I’ve wondered why. But I gave up looking for that answer a long time ago,” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice - _I don’t have a right to be frustrated with him, when I’m taking so much from him._ He looks about to object, to keep this conversation going, so I lean in to capture his lips with mine.

I pull back just slightly, thoughts still racing inside my head. He attempts a joke, but I can’t be bothered to laugh. “Isn’t this,” I run my thumb across the dimple from his slowly fading smile, “enough? Does it really matter _why_ I’m here? Can’t we just…” I pause again, not for emphasis this time. _Can’t we just be happy now, before I’m gone forever?_ “Can’t we just enjoy each other’s company while we have it?” I hope that sounds less...heartbreaking. 

It must, or maybe he doesn’t care, because he nods and I pull him back to me. I indulge my fantasy of kissing his skin, the one that manifested from his half-naked jaunt into the lounge, and he’s content to let me. I trace lazy lines at the hem of his shirt, press light kisses to his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. My other hand slides his shirt aside to get access to his shoulder. _I could do this for eternity_ , I think, though I notice his eyes have closed and his breathing has slowed.

Careful not to jostle him too much, I tuck an arm under his head and draw him into my chest. He doesn’t wake, just snuggles against me, and my heart breaks all over again - _I don’t want to lose this_.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” I say quietly when I notice his eyes have opened. He’s been asleep for hours; while that’s fantastic for regaining energy, he needs to eat as well. Though he protests my attempts to get him up, his stomach is eager for food, and the incessant growling - combined with my incessant pestering - gets him to his feet.

Well, it gets him standing and wavering. I frown - _he really needs to eat_ \- but he steadies himself and heads toward the kitchen. I draw in enough energy to make him a bowl of cereal - _it’ll help more than it hurts,_ I try to convince myself. He eats in silence, and I’m not sure if he’s lost in thought or too tired to carry on a conversation. _I hope it’s the former_.

“Oh, uhm, thanks for the cereal, you must be super…” a lazy gesture of the spoon in my direction, “today. I don’t think I’ve ever felt you that much, I-” he cuts himself off, realizing what he’s said, and he looks adorably flustered.

“Well…” I start, “There was a _lot_ of physical contact earlier,” I let the words hover around us, watching the blush rise to his cheeks before I continue. “You loved it,” I tease; deciding to take advantage of his sudden fascination with his cereal bowl, I materialize next to him.

“ _You want to do it more,_ ” I whisper, and there’s no more taunting - in fact, I’ve surprised myself at how downright flirtatious it sounded. But I waste no time, disappearing and moving to the bedroom. I wait for a moment before calling his name. _That sounded rather seductive, didn’t it?_ _Though, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him…_

My lips twist in a wry smile as he stops in the threshold. His face is flushed, but his eyes are full of desire, and he doesn’t hesitate as he pushes me back to the mattress and straddles my hips. _I was definitely not expecting him to be so..._ my thoughts disappear completely as he bends to press his lips to mine, and I allow my hands to roam his body. 

An idea sparks in my head, and I grip his hips as he focuses on my lips. In a moment, I’ve switched our positions and have him pressed against the bed under me. I chuckle victoriously, then feel Dan’s hand pulling me down toward him. I expect a kiss, but he’s stuck his tongue out and it pokes my own - _I completely forgot that I do that_ \- and I stare at him for a moment, amazed yet again at his ability to surprise me.

He giggles, and it shakes me from my thoughts. _Two can play at that game,_ I smirk as I lean in - his eyes close, as if expecting a kiss, but I bend down farther to meet his collarbone instead. I let my hands wander, finding any bit of exposed skin to touch, and his breathing is ragged and mesmerizing. 

I return my attention to his neck, sucking at it gently, and am astonished when he lets out a moan. _It sounds exactly like it did..._ I smile at the memory, lips still pressed against him, and continue at that spot for a while longer.

Then I let my kisses travel back up and to meet his lips; I watch him as I lower myself gently onto him, craving the feeling of him beneath me, and he suddenly looks nervous. _As if I haven’t yet noticed how turned on he is by this,_ I smile, and shift so I can feel his erection pressed against my leg. He closes his eyes, and I take the opportunity to catch him off guard.

I rock against him, just enough to create some friction, and he moans again. “Enjoying this, are you?” I ask - though I’m smirking, I can hear the desire in my voice. I do it again, hoping to hear him say my name, but he bites his lip instead. _Fuck if that isn’t sexy, though_ \- I decide to try a different approach, returning to the mark I’m leaving on his neck for a bit before I speak.

“Y’know, I heard you,” in place of every pause, I plant a soft kiss on his skin. “Those nights I was gone, when you said my name,” I let that one sink in, pausing longer before I continue. “No, when you _moaned_ my name,” I smile against his skin, and his breath hitches at my words. “You have such a pretty moan,” I add, and my words come out barely more than a whisper. I return to his neck, sliding the hand that had been playing with the waistband of his jeans down to his cock. And _that_ gets exactly the reaction I was looking for.

“ _Phil!_ ” he moans, and it sounds exactly like it did that night, but better - amazing, because his breath is in my ear and I want him _so badly_. I pull back, just slightly, to watch his face, and find his gorgeous brown eyes staring back at me. 

And then everything goes blurry, and the view of the flat is disappearing behind a white fog, and I want to _scream_ but there’s nothing I can do - I’m trapped, and I’ve left Dan _again_.

\----------------------------------------------

_The Worst_

I’m not even gone for long, but Dan’s asleep when I return, and I can’t bear to wake him. I’d sapped an immense amount of energy to do...everything we did last night, and I’m determined not to take any more unless I absolutely have to. _Oh please,_ my conscience takes the reins, _you know you’ll do exactly the same thing next time, maybe even more, steal even more energy._ I sit in the silence of the flat, grappling with the reality that the voice in my head is right, I wouldn’t hesitate to take his energy just to be with him.

It’s only when I return to the kitchen and notice the time that I run to wake Dan. But he won’t get up without an explanation, so I rush it - it doesn’t nearly convey how much I wanted to be here, be with him, though. “I wanted to stay, I really, _really_ did, but you need to get up, you’re late!” I’m almost shouting, and that seems to get through to him.

He’s out the door before I can say any more, tossing a farewell over his shoulder as he leaves. I migrate to the door, just in case he remembers. Then the doorknob shakes for just a second, and I jiggle it back, and I hope it makes him smile like it did for me.

I don’t expect him back til later in the afternoon, so I’m confused when I hear the lock click after less than an hour. I’m about to ask if they let him go early when I notice the state he’s in - his skin is unnaturally pale, bags under his eyes like purplish bruises, and there’s - is that _blood_ on his shirt?

I ask, but he won’t give me a straight answer.

“I think, maybe I should just lay down for a while. I’ve been exhausted lately, I probably just need more sleep,” his words are slurring toward the end, and I only manage a step before he’s collapsed to the ground. My first instinct is to rush to his side, help him up, maybe carry him to bed so he can sleep it off.

And I have to fight off every one of those ideas. _They all require taking more energy from him, I can’t do that, not now. I don’t know what would happen._ I drop my energy intake to the absolute minimum, complete invisibility, and try to come up with a solution. _Do I call an ambulance? How would I explain this, though?_ I file the idea in the back of my head, as a last resort.

 _You know what you need to do._ I try to ignore the words in my head, but they won’t leave me alone. “ _I don’t want to leave him!_ ” I shout into the flat, but the guilt bubbling in my stomach, the knowledge that I’m making him sick, it’s too much. _I have to. If I weren’t dead, it might kill me, but I_ have _to leave him._

Just as I come to this conclusion, I hear the sharp intake of breath that must mean Dan’s waking up. I sit on the counter, making myself just visible enough that he’ll know I’m there. It pains me to watch him struggle, to watch him rise to shaky feet as he leans heavily on the wall.

“You could’ve said something, jeez,” his voice is broken, hoarse, when he notices me, but I take it and lock the sound of it away in my mind. _I need something to take with me, if I can’t have him._

“I’m so sorry,” I start, and he tries to object, but I cut him off. “It’s not, I should’ve told you,” _I have to tell him the truth, the full truth, before I go._ I reach for him, so desperate not to leave, but drop my hand before I can pull the energy to be corporeal. I try to explain, but fear keeps me from getting to the point - I only stop when Dan collapses back to the floor.

“Dan, are you alright?” I’m worried I’ve hurt him again, but he just looks...empty.

“Just tell me what’s going on, Phil,” he croaks out, and I drop my gaze. I take a moment to compose myself, then tell him everything - the way I need energy to be solid, that I have to take it from someone living. That I’ve been taking it from him.

“I didn’t know it would hurt you,” I finish, lamely. He’s closed his eyes, and I feel defeated. _He hates me. I’m going to leave him, and he hates me. Maybe...maybe that’s for the best._ “I didn’t expect...I didn’t know how much I’d want to...to touch you,” I add, though it’s barely a whisper.

When he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, I crouch beside him, fear like a knife through my stomach. _Oh thank god, he’s still breathing,_ I draw some of my remaining energy, just enough to make my hand solid, and shake him gently. He hums as I whisper into his ear.

“I’m so sorry, I need to go now, I need you to be okay.” My voice breaks as I say the words, though I capture the moment of his slight smile, the return of the dimple. I put the last of my energy into making my lips real, into pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “I’m so glad I got to know you,” I whisper as the fog closes in around me.

 _Fine!_ I shout into my head as the whiteness replaces the last glimpse I’ll ever get of the man I’ve fallen in love with. _You can have me, I’m ready, I can’t stay there, not if it’s hurting Dan._ I close my eyes, blocking out the white with the blackness behind my eyelids, and wait for...whatever comes next.

\--------------------------------------------

_The Patient_

My eyes open to whiteness, and I wonder if that’s it, if the whiteness is where I’ll be stuck spending eternity. But at the edges of my vision, I notice things that _aren’t_ white - a maroon chair, a green fern, a black television hung on the wall across from me. 

_Where am I?_ I blink several times, turning as an annoying beeping permeates the silence. A few moments pass as I glare at the frantic lines on the monitor beside me, the source of the beeping, when someone rushes into the room. It’s a young woman, wearing nurse’s scrubs, and my incredibly slow brain manages to catch up.

 _Am I in a hospital?_ I swivel my head, trying to take everything in. _It has to be...right?_ I can’t imagine where else I’d be, though it seems an odd setting for the afterlife. 

“Hey, there, Philip, how are you feeling?” The woman asks; when I open my mouth to respond, nothing comes out aside from a very awkward croak.

“Right, let’s get you some water,” she disappears for a moment, returning with a cup and straw. It’s held to my lips, and I drink it in a few gulps. I try again to respond to her question, though my lips feel heavy and uncoordinated.

“‘M ‘kay,” I manage to get out. My tongue is like lead in my mouth, and everything’s responding twice as slowly as I want it to. I lift a finger, then my hand, clenching my fist experimentally, and the woman - the nurse - looks rather shocked. She doesn’t comment, though, just makes some notes on what must be my chart and leaves, promising to return with the doctor.

The mystery of _where_ I am having been solved, I turn my attention to...everything else. _Did I not actually die? Did I get kidnapped by aliens? Mind-wiped? Was I just in a coma or something?_ The last idea seems logical, something my brain can keep up with, and I latch onto it. _So then...everything that happened...was that all a dream?_ Tears spring to my eyes, and I let them fall. _I was laying in a hospital bed, of course it wasn’t real, of course_ he _wasn’t real_ …

The doctor and nurse return, announcing that my family will be here shortly. The nurse misinterprets my tears, cooing out kind words - “ _oh, honey, it’ll be okay_ ”s and “ _your family is so excited you’re awake_ ”s. I don’t bother to correct her. _How can I? How can I say that I’m crying for a person who doesn’t exist, for a dream?_

It’s midday the next day when my parents arrive, and my brother and his wife stop by later that afternoon. They’re all ecstatic - every expert out there had told them to give up hope I’d ever wake up. 

I’ve already been through a handful of physical therapy sessions since I woke up - including some time spent getting my speech back on track - so I’m able to sit up by myself, hold things, and carry on conversations with my family; they’re the ones doing the most talking, though, catching me up on everything that’s happened since I got hurt.

The doctor is shocked at my progress: I’ve bypassed the vast majority of his benchmarks, including ones he didn’t expect me to be able to pass for another year. He keeps insisting it has something to do with muscle contractions during the coma, but I’m just glad I’m not going to be stuck in a wheelchair for ages.

My parents stop by again, after Martyn’s left, passing the doctor as he makes his way out. He cautions them not to overwhelm me, but I’m honestly not even tired. In fact, I’ve already had my them bring my old laptop, and I spend all my free time getting caught up on the rest of the world.

“Honey,” my mum starts, and I look up to notice a woman standing at the door, someone I don’t recognize. “I know it’s been a long day, and you can say no, but this woman would like to do a short article on your recovery. Think you’re up for answering a few questions?” Though I appreciate the easy out she’s giving me, I nod.

“Yeah, I can answer some questions.” She mostly asks about the accident, how I got hurt, and how I’m feeling now. She smiles a lot, but it feels kind of fake; I’m secretly glad when she closes her laptop, thanks me for my time, and wishes me a speedy recovery.

Another day passes, full of therapy and family and semi-edible hospital food, and I’m driving the nurses crazy asking when I can leave. I need to get out of here, get back to the real world. _Anything to distract me from..._ I open my laptop again, planning to scan through some more news articles, when my mum stops in.

“I was just chatting with Dr. Chen, and he thinks we should start discussing your outpatient recovery plan. You won’t be able to live alone, so once you’re released, you can come live at home where we can keep an eye out for any regressions.” I lower the lid of the laptop. _I don’t want to go live at home again..._ It’s not that I don’t love my parents, but everything I have - had, before the accident - is here in London... _but do I really want to go back to my flat, when I know it’ll be empty?_ My mum interprets the look on my face as hesitation, and she smiles sympathetically.

“How about we postpone this chat for later? I saw some chocolate cake down in the cafeteria, so I’m going to run and get some. Do you want a slice?” I shake my head, still distracted by the idea of my future, of escaping my past - _can I even escape from a dream?_ I return to the laptop, searching for _anything_ else to focus on, as she pulls the door open.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, are you a friend of Phil’s?” That grabs my attention, and I look up. “Phil, looks like a friend’s here to see you!” As she slides out the door, I find myself staring open-mouthed at the man who steps hesitantly into my room.

“ _Dan?_ ”


	15. Epilogue: The Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy, smutty nonsense. Enjoy. Dan POV.

Though Phil’s recovery was miraculously fast, the doctor insisted he stay for at least a month to ensure there were no regressions or unexpected side effects. I still had to work, but spent all my free time at the hospital. Unfortunately, he was - more often than not - stuck in a physical therapy session, or having some test or scan run to check that everything was still okay; _most_ of my time there was spent getting to know his parents, who seemed far more involved in their son’s life than mine had ever been.

It was rather sudden, but Phil had been able to convince them to let him stay with me in London - he fabricated some story about how, before his accident, I’d been a fan of some videos he made. Supposedly, we got to talking online, then I moved nearby for uni and we ended up becoming really good friends. He threw in some details that seemed a little unnecessary (and unrealistic) to me - apparently, we’d even made some videos together - but it did the trick for his parents; their one requirement was a daily check-in call, to which we both happily obliged.

It’s odd to be standing outside the door of the flat that completely flipped my life on its head. I’m holding my keys in one hand, the other holding onto Phil. He gives me a quick squeeze, and I glance over to see his bright blue eyes meet mine. _This is real._ He _is real._

I turn the key in the lock, hand resting on the doorknob for just a moment longer than necessary. Then the door is swinging open, and we’re both stepping inside, and Phil’s shutting the door behind me. I’m frozen in the entrance, still in awe of everything that’s happened.

“It’s surreal,” Phil says, setting his bag down and kicking off his shoes. I do the same, then he wraps an arm around my waist. “I never thought I’d be back here again. When I left…” he pauses, taking a heavy breath, and I press a kiss to his cheek. We’ve already discussed it, and I understand why he did what he did. I’m _glad_ he did it. “When I left, I’d accepted that I’d never see this place again, that I’d never see _you_ again,” he smiles, and it’s the sun. 

“But it all turned out okay, so quit it with the sappy shit,” I’m teasing, but it’s all I can do to fight back the tears that threaten to overwhelm me. _I still can’t believe it._ I smile; Phil’s now wandering to the kitchen, perhaps out of habit. _I can’t believe I get that amazing man all to myself_. I follow him, comforted by the fact that _both_ our footsteps make the lounge floor creak.

“Y’know,” Phil says, turning toward me once he’s stood in the middle of the kitchen. “All those years, I could never figure out why I spent so much time in here, until now.” His eyes are sparkling, and I can’t tell if it’s from humor or...something more. My breath catches when he beckons me to join him, and he pulls me against his chest.

“And why’s that?” My voice is quiet and breathy, and I can’t think straight with his lips so close to my own.

“Well, I must be psychic,” he reasons, and a laugh escapes me. That’s not at _all_ what I was expecting him to say. 

“Oh, is that so?” I tease, resting my forehead against his as I continue to giggle. His grin turns mischievous, and he spins us slowly so my back is pressed against the countertop.

“It is!” He says, and I want to laugh again, but his hands are traveling down my back and over my hips and _damn I want this_. My breathing has sped up, and I’ve no doubt my cheeks are already tinged pink, but I can’t be bothered to care.

Without warning - though his smirk should’ve tipped me off - his hands are under my thighs and he’s lifted me up to sit on the counter. He pushes my legs open as he steps between them, and I gasp when his hands find my lower back to pull me against him.

“See, all that time, I must’ve known that this would be the _exact spot_ ,” he punctuates the sentence with a kiss, chaste and quick, and continues in a voice barely above a whisper, “the exact spot I’d be in the first time I saw the beautiful man I’ve had the pleasure of falling in love with _,_ ” he kisses me again, but it’s deeper, and I’m so caught off guard by his words that I’ve completely frozen against him.

He pulls back, just slightly, eyes scanning my own with concern.

“ _Oh_ ,” is all I can manage, barely a breath against his lips, as it hits me just how _badly_ I want this, how much I love him, and I’m utterly overwhelmed. Instead of allowing my brain to get lost analyzing this whole situation, I crash my lips into his and pull him close, fingers winding into his hair. 

His hands resume their journey across my body, running lightly over my thighs in a way that sends a shiver up my spine. I grasp at the edges of his shirt, suddenly desperate to get closer, and he pulls it up over his head; we break the kiss for a moment, then he pulls my own shirt off as well and steps away, leaving me perched awkwardly at the edge of the countertop.

“My god, how did I get so lucky?” His voice is low and husky, and I’m suddenly asking myself the same thing - in his ghost form, I’d never seen him shirtless; the sight is better than I’d imagined. Then his chest is pressed against me, and it’s as warm and flushed as my own, and I could get lost in the sheer pleasure of the moment. _He is real._

Until he turns his attention to my neck - the mark he’d left before has long since faded. Though the reminder of his existence is no longer necessary, the idea of him claiming me like that is more than arousing. As he sucks at that same spot, I moan - I can feel his smile against my skin, and his hands slide down my sides to play with the waistband of my jeans.

He doesn’t speak, his lips still fully occupied, but I feel his hands pause.

“ _Please,_ ” I whisper without hesitation, and his fingers deftly undo the button. In moments, his focus has gone from my neck to the jeans he’s tugging down from my waist. I prop myself up on the counter and feel the rough material slide across my skin, followed shortly by my boxers; I only realize the implications when the cold shock of the surface against my exposed skin makes me grimace and inhale sharply.

The noise, fueled partly by the unexpected chill and partly by the sensation of freeing my erection, stops Phil in his tracks. His hands drop my clothing, finding my face and cupping it gently.

“I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says, and his voice holds no trace of the lust or playful tone it had earlier. I watch his eyes flick back and forth between my own, and the concern is adorable - but sincerely misplaced.

“No, trust me, I am _more_ than comfortable with all of this,” I laugh, pulling him against me, “well, aside from the freezing countertop my bare ass is currently sat on,” I grin wryly, and he giggles. A lightness shoots through my chest when his tongue pokes through his teeth, and I’m once again reminded that _he is real_.

I’m startled from my stare when he fully _picks me up_ off the counter, and I wrap my arms around his neck tightly. _Damn, they don’t fuck around in physical therapy._

“What are you- no, no, nonono, don’t drop me, be careful!” I’m shouting and laughing at the same time, amazed that he’s able to keep me steady and still walk as he carries me toward my room. _Our room_. 

We fall onto the bed in the least graceful fashion, but we’re both laughing, and he’s warm as he collapses onto my chest. His nose stops only an inch from my own, and I’m losing myself in the oceans of his eyes. The next kiss is slow, deliberate, a direct contrast to the chaotic manner in which we arrived, and I’m suddenly aware of every spot my skin is touching Phil’s. And every spot it isn’t.

My hands tug lightly at the edge of his sweatpants, and he removes them, along with his boxers. Then we both pause, and I feel the heat coursing through my body as I take in the sight of him. _Better than every fantasy, easily_.

“Wait!” Phil rolls off me, and my exposed skin is suddenly chilly. _What is he - oh._ He returns from his brief foray with a small bottle of lube, and a tingle of excitement runs through me. He hesitates at the edge of the bed, like he’s deciding whether to ask again if this is okay. I make the decision for him.

“Please, Phil, _fuck me already_.” I know I sound whiney, but watching his face, after I say it, is incredibly erotic. At first, he looks confused and a little surprised, then he gives me the most suggestive grin I’ve ever seen. I prop my legs up to give him access, and he actually licks his lips as he rejoins me on the bed. I’m fixated on his movements as he coats his fingers with the lube, but his hand disappears below me and I turn to watch his face instead.

His eyes lock on mine as he slides the first finger in, and I bite my lip against a moan. His free hand finds its way to his cock, pumping it lazily, and the sight makes my own erection twitch against my stomach. 

“Another,” the word has barely fallen from my lips when I feel it, and I grasp at the sheets beside me. I fully give up trying to control my moans when Phil’s breath hits the inside of my thigh, mere moments before his lips do. I’m not even bothering to be quiet, and his smile against my skin as he scissors his fingers within me is overwhelming. I’m mumbling between whatever noises escape my mouth, trying to ask for more; I’m not sure he’s understood me at first, but I gasp when the third finger enters. 

He lifts his head, now, watching me - I can’t help it, I’m rocking against his fingers, trying to get something more and whimpering when I don’t. A full _whine_ comes out of my mouth at the unexpected loss of his fingers inside me, and my eyes fly open, ready to complain. Until I notice he’s spreading a generous amount of lube on his cock, and - if possible - my heart rate skyrockets even higher. 

He’s stroking himself slowly, smirking down at me as I pout beneath him. _I hope he doesn’t expect me to beg, because I won’t._ The moment the thought flashes in my head, I know it’s a lie. _I’ll do whatever he wants right now_. 

“ _Please,_ ” I ask, desperate to feel him - all of him - inside me. His gaze is dark and full of lust, but he doesn’t move for several agonizing moments. And then he’s hovering over me, and I can feel him pressing up against my entrance - he’s being deliberately slow, and I’m about to ask again, to _beg_ , when he sinks into me.

I shudder, and he looks about ready to collapse onto me - his face speaks of pure pleasure. His eyes find mine again, and he brings his lips down to meet mine. The moment before they do, the moment I’m distracted by his kiss, he pulls out and thrusts into me; instead of a kiss, my mouth opens with a moan, and he captures my bottom lip between his teeth and tugs at it gently.

He starts slowly, like he’s savoring every single moment - while endearing, though, I am not in the mood for the sappy, take-our-time thing right now. _He’s here, he’s real, we have the rest of our lives to go slow._

“ _Harder_ ,” I manage, once he’s released my lower lip to leave soft kisses against my shoulders. I wonder, as I say it, if it’s not something he’s into - _not like we ever really discussed these things before…_ the thought lasts for less than a second before he meets my eyes. And gives me an absolutely _wicked_ grin.

He shifts slightly, then his hips are pounding against me hard and fast - the sound of my moan is swallowed by the slam of the headboard against the wall, and I’m suddenly worried we’ve left a mark. The distraction is momentary, though; then Phil’s head is next to my own, releasing heavy breaths against my ear. The slight change in position has him ramming into my prostate, and I can feel the coil in my abdomen tightening with each thrust.

His name falls from my lips over and over again, sometimes barely a whisper and sometimes so loud I wonder if the neighbors will hear; his groan is low in my ear as my hands wind through his hair, and I decide I couldn’t care less what the neighbors hear. As if prompted by my movement, Phil’s hand finds my erection and begins stroking in time with his hips, and I about lose it right then. 

I hold my breath for a second, half wishing this won’t end and half desperate to chase the high - then his movements become jerky and erratic. 

“ _Fuck, you feel...amazing_ ,” the words, his voice in my ear - they send me over the edge, making my decision for me. My eyes are shut, head thrown back against the pillow, but I can feel the hot ribbons of cum across both our chests as I clench around Phil. At that moment, he shudders as his orgasm racks through him, and I can feel him filling me. 

His thrusts slow to a stop and he collapses onto me, a soft chuckle rumbling through his chest.

“What?” I ask, suddenly nervous. _Was it not good? Did he not enjoy that? Because I sure as hell did, but… “What?_ ” I repeat when he doesn’t respond, but he’s still giggling against me. I’m about to push him up, try to get an _answer_ , when his lips meet my collarbone. Then my neck, then my jaw, my cheek, and his face is half an inch from mine. He leans down, and all my fears evaporate the moment he kisses me. It’s a quick kiss, and I feel his smile against my mouth just before he pulls away.

“I can’t tell you how much I wanted...how _long_ I wanted…” he trails off, and I watch his blue eyes as they search for what he wants to say. Then they flick back to mine, full of surety. 

And we both jump when Phil’s phone rings from the other side of the room. Then he’s laughing, and I smile (and only whimper a _little_ ) when he pulls out of me and stands on shaky legs. I decide not to think too hard about how shaky _I’ll_ be if I try to stand, instead focusing on his body as he crosses the space. And his ass as he bends down to fish his phone from his pocket. _He is real. And he’s mine,_ I smile to myself.

“Hey mum!” Phil announces loudly, and my hand flies to my mouth to cover the inevitable eruption of laughter I can feel bubbling up in my chest. “Yeah, no, we got here fine,” he turns to me as his mum talks, fixing me with a gaze I can’t quite figure out. Until he speaks.

“Yeah, this is absolutely _perfect_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! If you'd like, feel free to give it a cheeky [reblog on tumblr](https://knlalla.tumblr.com/post/166980947637/surprise-happy-halloween-the-doorknob-extras)


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